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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25065781">I'll Be Seeing You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/comegentlenight/pseuds/comegentlenight'>comegentlenight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Project Blue Book (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, CA: TFA timeline, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mind Control, OC centric, Slow Burn, World War II, and project blue book, for the sake of canon you can pretend that michael quinn is an oc, he basically is, i just like a walk in the clouds with keanu reeves ok, mostly just a nod to another favorite piece of media, not explicitly a crossover, the Howling Commandos</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:54:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>32,483</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25065781</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/comegentlenight/pseuds/comegentlenight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1943, the Howling Commandos are becoming a hot topic on the western front. Lead by the charismatic Captain America, this rag-tag group of soldiers fights for freedom and justice, capturing the hearts of the American people. In steps a rookie reporter from the States to tell their story- the only problem is, she hasn't got a clue about war, and Bucky can see right through her false front.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes &amp; Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), Michael Quinn/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Belfast, Maine, Present Day</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The cemetery was a lot more colorful than most of the other places Bucky had been to in the last few years. Finely maintained green grass, covered by an azure sky, dotted with lush foliage; the only thing that would deter someone from using it as a picnic spot were the gravestones protruding from the ground in varying degrees of height and opulence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky stared down at the headstone he stood before, an unreadable expression on his face. A breeze rustled the leaves in a nearby tree and the sun scorched his forehead. He had been standing there for god knows how long, his mind running like a steam engine, chugging along past memories and thoughts of despair, grief, anger, resentment, and underlying them all, love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Footsteps behind him made him turn with a start. Sam approached, looking hesitant as all hell, but concerned. Bucky supposed that it was in Sam’s nature to care, especially when Bucky had implored Sam to drive him for 6 hours to a cemetery in Maine, with no real explanation, only to stand there immobile as the sun waned onward. Sam wandered to a stop just over Bucky’s left shoulder, his hands in his pockets, and glanced down at the knee-high granite monument.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sheryl Katherine Lurance Quinn, 1922-1965,” Sam read aloud, squinting against the sun. “World War II, Korea, Vietnam. ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll be seeing you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’” Sam was quiet for a moment, waiting for Bucky to say something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky found it difficult to say anything at all. His throat had a tightness that would choke him if he tried to speak through it, but he looked up at the sky with eyes that mirrored its color and watched as a plane buzzed along in the distance. After a moment, Bucky spoke. “I knew her. I remembered her, when I couldn’t remember anything else about my life. For some reason, I remembered her. So I looked her up and I hoped she was still alive, when I was on the run.” Bucky paused and tried to swallow down the tightness in his throat that came with thinking about her for too long. “She died in Vietnam. She was caught by a grenade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was she doing in ‘Nam?” Sam asked. “Women didn’t fight in the war back then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She was a journalist,” Bucky explained, staring at the patch of red clover growing on the grass below the headstone. “A war correspondent. That’s how I met her. Most of those photographs you see in the Captain America Smithsonian exhibit- she took them. She was fantastic.” Bucky was quiet for a moment, lost in thought. “But she didn’t fight. She hated fighting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two men stood before Sheryl’s grave, taking in the quiet of the day and the lingering feeling of her presence. A dove sounded nearby, calling out for its mate. Sam took a deep breath and gave Bucky a sideways glance. “You want to tell me about her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky rubbed his face, nearly gouging his eyes as a breeze blew his newly cut hair across his forehead. Sam couldn’t help but wonder if this was what Bucky had looked like during the war: haggard, exhausted, but running on willpower. When Bucky looked at him, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were glassy, as if he wasn’t long for the world and dying of tuberculosis. Sam frowned at him awkwardly, unsure of what to say, waiting for Bucky to respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was during the war, about a month after Steve rescued me‒ rescued everyone from the Hydra munitions factory. We had just returned from toppling another one when she showed up.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I intend for this to be as close to MCU canon as possible- if anything seems amiss, it's because I fucked up.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>We meet Sheryl as she meets the Captain, and a few other colorful characters.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Pordenone Province, Italy, December 1943 </em>
</p><p>Sheryl stood sidestage and fastened a hairpin to her notebook to keep her page stationery. The chill hung in the air with a heavy aura that permeated everything and made it difficult to breathe, reflecting Sheryl’s attitude towards the wooded military base. In Italy the winters weren’t nearly as harsh as they were in New England, but it didn’t make them any less frigid. Sheryl squinted down at her own handwriting, turned chicken scratch from the heavy leather gloves on her hands that dwarfed her pen. Her brassy hair, limp from the wetness in the air, blew sideways across her face now that her hair pin was holding down her paper. To see or to write was the ultimatum of the day.</p><p>“Well, men, another Hydra base has been defeated.” Captain America’s booming voice rang through the trees, followed by a rapturous cheer of the crowd of USO’s that were corralled in front of the stage, which was freshly slapped together specifically for this assembly.  It was all so very patriotic and American; the backdrop was a fifty foot American flag, the podium that stood before it bearing the Captain’s signature round shield. But the man that stood behind it, who had just gotten back from his latest mission earlier in the day and had been talking for close to twenty minutes now, looked like any other military man in his olive green uniform. He was large, blonde haired and blue eyed, the poster boy of the US Army that had toured around America and Europe selling war bonds, a celebrity and a war hero. </p><p>Sheryl snapped a photograph of the scene as the Captain continued, “The good news is that another 200 prisoners were freed from the base. The bad news is that we have many more to go before Hydra is wiped out.” There was a sweeping groan from the crowd. “I know that a lot of you men remember how it was to be a prisoner of Hydra, some more than others. That’s why I’m hoping you’ll be prepared to fight with me when we go to strike. When we do that, when Hydra is defeated, there’ll be victory for us, and freedom for the world.” Thunderous applause followed the Captain as he announced that a group of female singers would be entertaining the troops for their trouble. The cheers grew in exuberance as he left the stage and the girls filed on.</p><p>The Captain clambered down the steps stage left, looking almost shocked to find his superior, Colonel Phillips, waiting for him with a young woman in a royal blue woolen trench coat. As alarming as Sheryl found the Captain’s considerable height to be, he had a humble look about his face and kept his hands behind his back. He looked down at Sheryl, much smaller in stature, and smiled kindly.</p><p>“Captain Rogers, meet Sheryl Lurance, the journalist I told you about. Miss Lurance, Captain America,” Colonel Phillips announced with all the warmth of a cadaver. Sheryl had gotten used to Colonel Phillips’ gruff and detached attitude in the week that she had been acquainting herself with the military base. When she arrived, the Colonel had given her a lovely introduction speech that had approximately gone as follows: <em> You and your editor are not the first people to ask us for an interview with the Captain and we don’t want a damsel in distress getting in the way because she needs to get a bunch of pictures of our men. You’re here under my good graces so don’t screw anything up. </em>It wasn’t the welcoming party that she had wanted, but then again, she didn’t really want to be here in the first place.</p><p>The Colonel turned rigidly to the Captain, who stood at attention before him. “She’s your problem, now.” With that, Colonel Phillips left them to be acquainted.</p><p>“I can see he’s been treating you kindly.” Captain Rogers watched with a hint of a smirk on his face as the Colonel marched off. The speakers on stage blasted a jovial jazz number across the crowd behind him. “You’re here from the New York magazine, what’s it called again? It’s not <em> Time </em>, it’s‒”</p><p>“<em> Free Man </em>,” Sheryl interjected. “Appropriate, don’t you think?” </p><p>“Yes, very,” he nodded and grinned. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”</p><p>“You as well, Captain Rogers.”</p><p>“Please, call me Steve,” he insisted, beginning to slowly walk from the stage. “‘Captain Rogers’ sounds so formal. I’m just a man, like everyone else.”</p><p>“A pretty celebrated man,” Sheryl observed. They began a meandering walk through the camp, where canvas awnings and tents were riddled through the trees. Nestled in the woods on the edge of the clearing, it seemed to weave in a completely erratic fashion, as most hastily established camps are. “You’re a big deal, both here and in the states. You became a war hero pretty much overnight.”</p><p>Steve blushed at the idea of it. “I was just doing my job. Anyone could have done it.”</p><p>“How are you handling the fame?” Sheryl asked, her pen poised over her notebook. “Do you find it easier or more difficult to work now that you’re more well known?”</p><p>“I don’t really think it’s made a difference.” Steve looked down at his feet as they walked. He didn’t wait for her to ask another question. “How have you settled in to camp? How long have you been here?” </p><p>As she wrote something down, Sheryl responded, “I’ve been here a week. It’s been all right, for the most part. There’s no solid housing and the woods are unnerving, but‒” Sheryl shrugged with a half hearted smile, not wanting to insult him with her disdain for military accommodations.</p><p>“Sounds like you don’t like it much.”</p><p>Sheryl hummed, trying not to show on her face how accurate his observation was. “I’m just doing my job, same as you.”</p><p>“Is there any way I can make things easier for you?” His voice was full of sympathy.</p><p>Sheryl gave her best attempt at a smile, hoping that it looked convincing. “That’s really kind of you, but unless you can end the war by tomorrow, I don’t know that you can.”</p><p>Steve laughed at that, looking like he understood her mindset completely. She wasn’t sure that he did. “Well that’s what I’m here for, but wars don’t end overnight.”</p><p>“No, of course not.” Sheryl paused to write something down, then looked up at him. “Captain Rogers, I‒”</p><p>“Steve.”</p><p>“<em> Steve </em>,” Sheryl smiled and backpedaled her train of thought. “I know that you have an important job and you don’t need to be bogged down by protecting a civilian that’s just tagging along to be a nuisance.”</p><p>“I don’t think you’ll be a nuisance.”</p><p>“This article I’m here to write should serve to boost the morale of the American people,” she continued, “And unfortunately that means that I have to come with you to see you in action.”</p><p>“I understand that.”</p><p>“I just want you to know that I’m going to try and stay out of your way as much as possible. I’ll hide when I need to and run when I need to. But if something happens to you because you’re protecting me, that means I’m sent home, I can’t finish my article, and I’m the one that got Captain America injured, or worse.” </p><p>“Well, let’s hope that doesn’t come to that,” Steve stopped walking in front of a large tent between two enormous pines. “This is my tent. I’ve been travelling all night to get here, I hope you understand.”</p><p>“Right, of course.” Sheryl capped her pen and tucked her notebook into the deep pocket of her woolen coat. “Off the record, do you know what your next mission is?”</p><p>Steve scratched his head, looking up into the trees for the answer. “I can’t really say, to be honest. A lot of the time, missions just jump out at us and we take them as we go. It could be another Hydra base, or it could be something else. Odds are, it won’t be happening for a while yet since we just got back. Don’t worry.”</p><p>Sheryl nodded, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her coat. The cloud cover broke momentarily, and the sun shone through the trees and cast speckles of light across Steve’s face. She thought he looked every bit like an american hero: handsome, strong, but gentle behind the eyes. He smiled at her, excused himself, and disappeared into his tent.</p><p>~~~</p><p>There were few things that Sheryl hated in this world. She had an abundance of annoyances, yes, but few things that she despised more than anything else. One of them was conflict. It was something she couldn’t deal with, and often times wouldn’t out of her own propensity for self preservation. Most of her hatred toward conflict was simply due to the fact that she didn’t hate, and she didn’t like to disagree with people, or at least, not directly to their faces. </p><p>The second thing was that she hated the woods. Forests, groves, woodland settings, or anything in between. Being surrounded by trees and all their secrets, the uncontrollable wilderness, the creeping uncertainty up the back of her neck that told her she was not safe as long as she was surrounded by unseen beasts, left her with a boiling animosity toward the dear sweet woods. Unfortunately, she found herself surrounded by both of these things.</p><p>She liked to tell herself that, had she known that she would be forced to reside in the forest for months at a stretch, she would not have taken the job. But the truth was that, forest or no, she would still have been smack in the middle of the conflict that the war, by definition, created. She hadn’t wanted to take the job in the first place, but as her editor had so graciously pointed out, she had no choice. </p><p>“You’re the only journalist we’ve got who isn’t working on an important project right now,” Hugh had said with his nose endearingly turned up at her. “You should feel lucky that we even offered you the job. But, if you’re not interested in taking this assignment, we’ll find someone more qualified who will.”</p><p>And so, thanks to Hugh Neilson’s kill-or-be-killed attitude, Sheryl found herself in the most indelectible place that she could imagine. Walking through the woods on a military base in Italy, preparing to accompany a group of strange men into battle. She had hoped that it wouldn’t be so bad, but at least a cabin with a working toilet would have been nice. Instead she got a tent, shared with three other WRENs, and a lovely chamber pot under a rusty cot. </p><p>She slowed her pace as she approached a creek that ran through the woods. She had tiptoed her way across it on her way to the assembly earlier that morning, but that had been closer to the camp site and had been a shallower point in the creek altogether. Here, arguably deeper in the woods, the creek was no longer a creek but more akin to a narrow river. The water didn’t move very fast, but it was quite deep. She would have to walk along it and find a better place to cross before she could get back to women’s quarters. </p><p>“Who’s the genius who puts one camp on two sides of a river?” Sheryl grumbled as she trudged along the water’s edge. </p><p>“That would be the general,” said a man’s voice, startling Sheryl out of her wits. Her hand instinctively reached for her golden heart shaped locket, which she clutched in her fist against her chest. She stopped dead and looked around, hoping that she wasn’t hearing things already at the ripe old age of 21. </p><p>“Over here,” the voice said again, and Sheryl caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of her eye. When she followed it she saw a soldier lazily waving at her, crouched down at the water’s edge on the other side of the river, wearing only a brown sleeveless undershirt and braces holding up green uniform trousers. His brown hair hung over his forehead, as if he had neglected to comb it that morning.</p><p>When he got a good look at her, his sarcastic smile turned into a laugh. “Well, what do you know? It’s Judy Garland.” He stuck his hands in the water and said in a falsetto, “‘Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.’” </p><p>Sheryl’s eye twitched in annoyance. “I’m not Judy Garland.”</p><p>“<em> Obviously </em>,” he said blandly, hardly glancing at her. “Could’a fooled me, though.”</p><p>“What are you doing?” She stared at him suspiciously as he tugged at something in the water with both hands.</p><p>He held up a soggy pair of cotton boxers. “My delicates.”</p><p>Sheryl laughed at his bluntness and raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you cold?”</p><p>“Yes.” He plopped the boxers back into the water, beginning to hum the <em> Wizard of Oz </em> theme. “You know, this used to be a sacred river to the ancient people of this region. It was the birthplace of a love goddess or something. Funny how things change.” He looked at her again, and motioned to the red band wrapped around her bicep, over the sleeve of her coat. It bore a large white ‘C’ for ‘correspondent.’ “You’re with the press?”</p><p>“<em> Obviously </em>,” she responded with his same bland tone. </p><p>He smirked and nodded to himself. “Figures.”</p><p>“And what’s that supposed to mean?” </p><p>“It’s just easy to pick you all out in a crowd,” he explained, sounding bored. “If you want to find women’s quarters, you’re walking in the wrong direction.”</p><p>She looked back the way she came. “That doesn’t sound right.”</p><p>He pursed his lips and tilted his head back and forth. “To listen to the soldier or not, that’s the question.”</p><p>“Well, thanks for the help,” she muttered unenthusiastically and began to retrace her steps.</p><p>“Wait, wait,” the soldier said, and she stopped to look at him over her shoulder. He looked dramatically back and forth, and pointed in the direction she had been heading originally. “You know what, I think camp actually is in that direction.”</p><p>Sheryl stared at him for a few seconds. From where she stood, she could see that the man’s face was flushed, and that he shivered and breathed deeply from the cold, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Are you <em> toying </em>with me?”</p><p>The man repressed a smile. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”</p><p>Sheryl stepped back to where she had previously stood, directly across the water from him. “Listen, I have to get back to women’s quarters to do some work. So if you don’t <em> mind </em>-” She stopped short when the smile fell from the soldier’s face and he looked suddenly determined. All pretenses dropped and an almost angry demeanor broke over his facade. In a blink, he had stood and pulled a pistol out of the pocket of his trousers and aimed it at her. </p><p>Sheryl forgot to breathe and her pulse quickened, so much so that she felt it pounding strongly in her neck and her wrists. Before she even realized what she had done, she had jumped, out of adrenaline and instinct, into the ice cold river. Head underwater, she heard a gunshot from above. It was louder than she had expected, even after being muffled, but despite her adrenaline she couldn’t focus on it for the pain of being submerged in freezing water, like needles piercing her entire body. </p><p>Her feet found the bottom of the river before his hands found her. As he hoisted her up by her elbow, she stood on her own, the water level only coming up to her chest. She pushed him off with a scream, but he hardly fought her; instead, he let her go, as if he wasn’t interested in her to begin with. He trudged through the river past her, splashing water with each step, and emerged on the other side. Standing in the freezing water, shaking with cold and fear, she watched him in confusion as he walked up into the treeline and started rummaging around in the bushes.</p><p>“Are you fucking <em> crazy </em>?” She screamed at him, nearly losing her balance as she splashed around, her frozen legs trying to get her to the side of the river he had previously been on. She crawled like a salamander onto the muddy bank, her frozen limbs stiff and unyielding, and collapsed sideways in an attempt to watch what he was doing. </p><p>“Oh, she’s got a <em> vocabulary </em> ,” he shouted back as he yanked something out of the bushes. Sheryl squinted at it, unable to focus as she shivered from the unyielding cold. It was when the soldier dragged it closer to the water and hoisted it up over his shoulder that she realized it was another man, covered in leaves and mud. The soldier panted, trying to sustain the weight of another body. “Well, it looks like I’ll just have to walk you back to camp myself, since I just shot a <em> fucking </em>spy.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Sergeant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sheryl learns more about the strange soldier she met in the woods.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Is he dead?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Is he a Nazi?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“Well, he stinks.” Sheryl scrunched up her nose in disgust as they dragged the limp body of the spy through the woods. Sheryl had begrudgingly decided to help, not because she felt she needed to help the strange soldier who had just pulled a gun on her, but because he was taking so long dragging the unconscious spy along that she decided it would be better for everyone if she did. It didn’t help that she still wobbled on her feet, and her hair dripped freezing water into her eyes. She was considerably smaller than the soldier, so the spy was held up cockeyed and she had to use more arm strength than she wanted to support him.</p><p>Up ahead, a break in the trees and the sound of voices filled Sheryl with the most happiness she’d had in a week. If going back to women’s quarters and lying on her creaky springboard of a cot was the alternative to the soldier and the unconscious spy, she would gladly take it. </p><p>When they were finally back near a few utility tents, the closest thing to civilization, the soldier yelled out, “Medic, I need a medic!” Shortly, a nurse in a white uniform came running up, followed by two paramedics with a cot. As the soldier foisted the spy off on the nurse, he said, “make sure this man is taken to Colonel Phillips to be detained. He’s not one of us.”</p><p>As she watched the medics run off in the direction of the clinic, Sheryl decided to take the opportunity to bail out. She turned and began to walk in the direction of women’s quarters, hopefully this time not falling into the stream she had to cross. She had made it ten steps before the soldier called out, “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”</p><p>“As far from you as possible,” Sheryl seethed. She ran a shaky hand through her wet hair, fingers flicking freezing water as she walked. </p><p>“No you’re not, you’re a witness,” he stated, trailing after her. “You have to see Colonel Phillips to report what happened.”</p><p>“Fat chance of that,” Sheryl scoffed. “You pointed a gun at me, and you expect me to go with you and what? Say you saved the day?”</p><p>“I didn’t point the gun at <em> you </em>, I-” cutting off, he jogged to step in front of her. “If you don’t come with me, they’ll charge you with withholding information. You’ll lose whatever kushy paparazzi job you’ve got going on. You could be arrested.”</p><p>“You don’t get it, do you?” She snapped, glaring up into his face as assertively as she could muster. “I don’t want to be involved with your crazy espionage business, and I don’t want to be near you or your trigger finger. I want to do my own work, and that’s it!”</p><p>“Pardon me for imposing, princess, but you’re at a military base in a <em> war zone </em>. If you don’t like the danger, you’re in the wrong place.” He gazed down at her, daring her to look away from him. “Anyways, I can always tell them you refused to cooperate.”</p><p>“You don’t even know my name,” Sheryl narrowed her eyes at him. “How would you even tell them who to look for?”</p><p>He considered her for a moment, his blue eyes steady and precise under his furrowed brow. “A cute war correspondent in a blue coat who looks like Judy Garland, soaking wet and angry about it. You wouldn’t be hard to find.”</p><p>They stood defiantly before each other. Sheryl clenched her fists tightly at her sides, her body shaking violently. If she hadn’t been grinding her teeth, they may have chattered. The soldier shook his head and looked away for a moment before he finally said, “Listen, you’re going to come with me, and you’re going to report on what happened in the woods. That’s an order.”</p><p>“No, you don’t get to order me to do <em> anything </em> ,” Sheryl hissed, pointing a finger in his face. He stared down his nose at her flushed cheeks and livid expression, his jaw locked tight. “I am a civilian. I don’t follow <em> orders </em> from anybody. Not from a private, or a sergeant, or a captain, or whatever you are. I am here to do one job, and one job only, and that is to write an article that I send to my <em> boss </em>, in the States!”</p><p>The two were quiet for a moment, locking eyes. The soldier’s face was unreadable, but she didn’t care if she had made him angry or not. She simply wanted to be rid of him. </p><p>The sound of pounding footsteps approached behind her, and she turned to find a young man slowing from a sprint as he came toward them. “Sergeant,” He panted, “Colonel Phillips and the Captain want to see you. They say it’s urgent.”</p><p>“Great,” the soldier said and began to walk with the young man in the direction that the medics had gone. A few paces away, he looked back at Sheryl and sighed. “You know, the sooner you file the report, the sooner you’ll get to change into some dry clothes. They’ll find you before you even get back to your tent.”</p><p>Sheryl boiled with resentment. She knew that he was right, and she knew that it wouldn’t be in her best interest to purposefully withhold information from the Colonel. So when the soldier jerked his head to urge her to come along, she went with him, two steps behind, clutching her freezing arms to her chest. </p><p>~~~</p><p>Sheryl was tired of the folding chair that she’d been sitting in for an hour. She wasn’t exactly sure how long she’d been there, but an hour seemed like a generous approximation. Really, it felt like it had been days. </p><p>The claustrophobic tent was dimly lit by an oil lamp on the table in the center, which Sheryl had been told to sit at by a frantic looking Private. She complied, assuming she would be immediately asked for her report and then sent on her way. Unfortunately, she ended up waiting, and waiting, and waiting, while her wet clothes became colder against her skin, her exhaustion became overwhelming, and night fell outside. Finally, she decided that it would be better for her health to simply go back to women’s quarters and write her report to give to the Colonel at a later time. </p><p>She stood from her chair and moved to leave the tent when the flap over the entrance was pulled aside before her. Steve Rogers had to stoop in order not to hit his very blonde head on the canopy of the tent. He nodded at her, looking meek, as he was followed by the soldier who had brought her here in the first place. Unlike her, he had been given the opportunity to put on a uniform jacket. </p><p>“You again,” Sheryl grumbled, plopping back down in her seat. </p><p>The soldier opened out his arms, as if to say, “What can you do?”</p><p>“I’m really sorry they’ve kept you waiting for so long.” Steve sounded sincere. “Colonel Phillips has been interrogating the spy this whole time. I insisted on coming to see you, since I figured no one else was on the task.”</p><p>“That’s very kind of you,” Sheryl commented glumly. She scrunched up her nose suddenly, then sneezed into her arm. </p><p>“Bless you.” Steve rubbed his face and looked at Sheryl sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, Sheryl.” He abruptly turned to the soldier. “Bucky, can you please get her some dry clothes? She’s getting sick.”</p><p>“<em> Bucky </em>?” Sheryl looked wildly between the two men. She couldn’t believe that this whole time, she had been arguing with and cursing Captain America’s best friend and right hand. </p><p>“Sheryl? <em> That’s </em> Sheryl?” Bucky looked to be having the same thoughts as she. He looked shocked, then confused, then hysterical. “ <em> This </em> is the broad that’s supposed to be reporting on us?”</p><p>“Sure am.” Sheryl sniffled, her runny nose making her voice sound thick and nasally. “But if I catch pneumonia I might not live to do that.”</p><p>Steve glanced between the two, who stared at each other with brewing animosity. “You seem like you need to work out what happened between the two of you, so <em> I’ll </em> go get the clothes.” He gave Bucky a pointed, stern look and left the tent.</p><p>Neither of them spoke. Bucky remained still, his hands in his pockets, and looked everywhere but at Sheryl. Sheryl sniffled again, her eyes cast down at the table. Her wet hair still hung in stringy clumps around her face. “Why didn’t you tell me you were <em> Bucky Barnes </em> <em>?</em>”</p><p>“You didn’t ask.” Bucky cleared his throat suddenly and said, “I suppose that anything I say to you is gonna go in your article, right?”</p><p>Sheryl glared up at him. “For the time being, no.” She pulled a limp and soggy notebook out of her coat pocket and tossed it angrily on the table. “You know what that is? That’s a week’s worth of notes that are lost now, thanks to you.”</p><p>“Hold on,” Bucky began, looking confused, “First of all, how is it <em> my </em>fault? And second, how do you have a week’s worth of notes when we only just got back here? You haven’t even met half the men yet.”</p><p>“I’ve been here longer than you’ve been back. You think the world only revolves around you?” Sheryl leaned forward, her fists clenched, mentally boring holes into his head. “And it’s your fault, because you pointed a gun at me! And you expected me to just stand there?”</p><p>“For Christ’s sake!” Bucky threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “I didn’t point the gun at <em> you </em>! I told you that! Why are you taking this so personally?”</p><p>“Well you could have said ‘duck!’” Sheryl shouted, jumping up from her seat. </p><p>She stared up at him, ready to explode if he tried to argue with her. </p><p>As Bucky’s eyes flared and he opened his mouth to respond, Steve entered the tent again, holding a green satchel. Steve looked between the two, unsure of what he had walked in on, and placed the bag gently on the table. “I couldn’t exactly find a lady with spare clothes… I hope these will do for now.” He nodded hesitantly at Sheryl, then roughly planted a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and yanked him out of the tent. </p><p>Sheryl, alone again, took only a moment to think before she ripped open the satchel and dumped out its contents. A pair of uniform khakis, a heather blue sweatshirt, a belt and a pair of socks tumbled onto the table before her. </p><p>As she pulled off her damp coat, she heard the two men outside strike a match to smoke a cigarette. She began to unbutton her blouse, shivering from the cold. </p><p>“What did you do, Buck?” She heard Steve ask, trying to be quiet but forgetting that canvas tents are not proper walls. </p><p>“I didn’t do anything!” Bucky exclaimed in a poor attempt at a whisper. </p><p>“Then why is she so mad at you?”</p><p>“Oh, she’s pissed because she thinks I tried to shoot her.” Bucky sounded annoyed, and Sheryl envisioned a sarcastic expression contorting his aggravatingly handsome face. She pulled on the blue sweatshirt, revelling in the warmth and comfort it provided. </p><p>“Did you?” She heard Steve ask after a pause. </p><p>“<em> No </em> ,” Bucky answered him emphatically, then remembered he was supposed to whisper, for however much good that did. “I aimed it at <em> him </em>. But she wigged out and jumped in the fucking river, and now she’ll probably blame me if she gets sick.”</p><p>Sheryl rolled her eyes as she pulled the khakis up over the sweatshirt. Everything in the bag had been far too big for her, including the belt, so that when she went to tighten it she had to tie the leather in a knot to persuade it to stay put. The waistband of the pants bunched up like a ruffle around her midsection. She bent down to cuff the bottom of the pants as Steve poked at the tent flap and called, “Is it safe to come in?”</p><p>“Maybe for you,” she heard Bucky mumble, sounding like he had his cigarette between his lips. </p><p>“Yes,” she said to the contrary, and sat back down as they both ducked back into the tent.</p><p>“I was told I had to write a report,” Sheryl said as she boredly stuffed the soggy clothes into the satchel, “And that it wouldn’t take that long.”</p><p>“Sorry,” Bucky grumbled blandly as he sat on a crate in the corner of the tent and fiddled with the cigarette in his fingers. </p><p>Sheryl grunted in disdain and looked at Steve as he placed a piece of paper and a pencil in front of her. The paper was military stationary, with a designated box for writing incident reports. “You can just write what happened here. We’ll cover the rest.”</p><p>Bucky took the cigarette from his mouth quickly and pointed it at her. “And please don’t say I tried to kill you, okay? Because I didn’t.”</p><p>Sheryl squinted at him. “Out of the two of us, which one deals with writing facts on the daily?”</p><p>“Both of us,” Bucky replied incredulously. “Believe it or not, Sherry, I have to write reports like this every day.”</p><p>“Don’t call me Sherry.”</p><p>“Knock it off,” Steve groaned, looking between them, “both of you.”</p><p>Bucky gazed at Steve for a moment, sucking on his cigarette. In the low lamp light, Sheryl thought, he resembled Dick Tracy, with his square jaw and brown hair hanging just above his eyes. A moment later he chuckled, stood up with an insincere smile, and said to Steve, “I’ll be with the Colonel when you’re finished.” Not bothering to look at Sheryl, he left without another word. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. By Order of Colonel Phillips</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Colonel has some orders to dish out, some of which Sheryl wants no part in</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>In her dreams, Sheryl never imagined she’d be sitting between Captain America and Bucky Barnes while being simultaneously briefed and raked over the coals by Colonel Phillips. But here she was, the morning after her wet woodland debacle, primly dressed in her own brown War Correspondent uniform, after having been roused early by WREN Stacy Flannigan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stacy had shaken Sheryl roughly awake, looking as though she’d seen a ghost. “Colonel Phillips is looking for you,” Stacy babbled frantically, “Why is he looking for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl had rolled over and grunted as she checked her watch to find that it was 5:30 in the morning. “Probably something about Cap and his damn sidekick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean Sergeant Barnes?” Stacy looked offended.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The very one.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All the women in camp find Sergeant Barnes quite charming,” Stacy carried on possessively as Sheryl began to get dressed. “He’s really popular.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have no doubt about that,” Sheryl answered sarcastically and pinned her freshly curled hair back into a roll at the base of her neck. “Did the Colonel say anything else, Stacy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh!” Stacy waved her hands wildly, suddenly remembering why she’d woken Sheryl up. “Colonel Phillips said he needs you to meet him at the head offices. It’s urgent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was how Sheryl found herself in a small office, which looked like a converted interrogation room, in a cinderblock building somewhere in the darkest depths of the military base. She was unpleasantly reminded of trips to the principal’s office in grade school, having to sit in a chair that was much too big for her and be taken to task for some big misunderstanding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve sat on her right, sharply dressed in his standard military uniform, with an expression on his face that read determination. He didn’t seem to mind that Colonel Phillips had spent the entire fifteen minutes that the meeting had been in session ripping into them each in turn. Bucky, on her left, mirrored Steve’s appearance only in uniform. He leaned against his hand, his palm pressed against his pursed lips, his fingers tapping the armrest of his chair impatiently. When he entered the office initially, only to see Sheryl sitting in one of the chairs, he turned tail and walked right back out. It was only when Colonel Phillips greeted him in the hallway that Bucky reentered the office and took his seat without a word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miss Lurance,” the Colonel began without any other introduction, “I allowed you to be sent here on the condition that you would not be a liability for my soldiers. My men have serious work to do and do not need to be burdened with the task of protecting a civilian that is only acting as a distraction. Did I not tell you this when you arrived one week ago?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, sir,” Sheryl answered meekly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Colonel glowered at her from behind his desk. “Then explain to me why Sergeant Barnes had to </span>
  <em>
    <span>save</span>
  </em>
  <span> you from a Nazi spy that infiltrated the base last night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl could think of multiple responses to the Colonel that would likely have gotten her kicked right out of the office. “I suppose that would be a better question for the Sergeant,” she finally stated diplomatically, turning to look at Bucky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky refused to look at her, but continued to stare straight ahead with his hand cupped across his mouth. When the Colonel addressed him, he sat upright and cleared his throat. “The Nazi was hiding in the bushes behind her, sir. He moved to grab her, so I shot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell were you doing by the river, anyways?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Laundry, sir.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Colonel narrowed his eyes at Bucky, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. Sheryl was staring at him, doing the same, when Steve raised his hand. “Sir, may I ask why we’re all here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Colonel waved his hand to silence him. “I’m getting to that.” He picked up a folder from his desk and removed a sheet of paper from it. “Our Nazi friend failed to commit suicide yesterday evening during interrogation. Expired cyanide capsule. Spent the whole evening vomiting everything but his memories.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl wrinkled her nose in disgust. As Colonel Phillips handed the sheet of paper to Steve, he continued, “Eventually, our man talked. He said that he came from a group stationed in Bellissimo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s only fifteen miles from here,” Bucky stated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that, Sergeant,” the Colonel snapped. “That’s why I’m sending you and the rest of your Howling Commandos on a recon operation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Colonel, with all due respect, we just returned from one yesterday,” Steve commented, passing the paper over Sheryl’s shoulder to Bucky. Bucky took the page and examined it, not looking very pleased at its contents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just as aware of that as you are, Captain Rogers. Now if one of you would tell me something I don’t know, it would be much appreciated.” The Colonel waited for one of them to speak before he said, “Since Sergeant Barnes is the one that shot the bastard in the leg and got us the intel, I believe it’s only appropriate that you see the mission through. The three of you will be leaving with the men in the morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re taking her with us?” Bucky asked in a dead voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Obviously, Sergeant, or I wouldn’t have alerted you to her arrival in the first place.” The Colonel sounded like he was losing his patience considerably. “Now, if there are any more questions, speak now or forever hold your peace.” When nobody answered him, the Colonel gruffly dismissed them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky left in a hurry, but Steve lingered behind as Sheryl removed herself from the office with whatever dignity she had left. She could see Bucky twenty paces down the hall practically jogging to, presumably, get further away from her. It was a stellar introduction to her assignment, she thought, having to be reprimanded after only knowing her subjects for one day. If only Hugh Neilson could see her now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl paced back and forth in the hallway. She thought over her motives for being there, fondling her golden locket, her mind going a mile a minute. She decided it was best not to say anything and to just go back to her tent and begin to pack; she turned away from the door, when it swung open without warning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Colonel Phillips peered at her with contempt. “Is there something I can do for you, Miss Lurance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl stopped in her tracks to swallow her lungs as they jumped into her throat. “No,” she blurted, shoving her necklace back into the collar of her uniform blouse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then please stop pacing in front of my door,” the Colonel grumbled, “Your footsteps are distracting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually, sir,” she backtracked, clearing her throat, “I wanted to speak to you, concerning my assignment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There would be no other reason for you to speak to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Sheryl thought for a moment about the best way to phrase her words. “I believe that I’m no longer fit for this job.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t say.” The Colonel didn’t seem surprised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I cannot go into the field with these men,” she clarified, taking a deep breath. “I can’t be around the danger, I’m not able to function well enough in that kind of combat scenario. I’m not a soldier, and I can’t do my job as a journalist when there are guns pointed at me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Colonel considered her statement, then stepped aside to welcome her into his office. He closed the metal door behind her, then walked to his desk. “You mean you can’t go into the field with Sergeant Barnes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not-” Sheryl paused, mulling it over. “If Sergeant Barnes is part of the danger, then no, I can’t be around him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Colonel sat on her words, looking unamused. After an uneasy silence, he said, “Miss Lurance, you’re well aware of the amount of coaxing it took your editor to send you here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl sighed at the thought of Hugh. She didn’t know what part of his soul he had to sell to even get the opportunity to send one of his journalists on this assignment, rather than someone from </span>
  <em>
    <span>Time</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>National Geographic</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but she imagined it was something substantial. Hugh had settled on her because she was his only chance at getting the gold; if she didn’t do it, it would have gone to one of their competitors, and he was obviously not above replacing her if need be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure you’re aware of the amount of coaxing that</span>
  <em>
    <span> I </span>
  </em>
  <span>had to do to get you here as well,” Colonel Phillips continued.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry?” Sheryl was confused, as she had assumed the Colonel didn’t want her here at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Female correspondents are few and far between,” he explained, “and I do have superiors who I answer to. Fortunately, I was able to sell them on the idea that your editor had: If your article is popular enough to gain the S.S.R. the attention of some of the leading organizations for the war effort, then with their funding we can easily win this war.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So someone else can easily write your propaganda article,” Sheryl insisted. “Why does it have to be me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because at this point you know too much about my men and their activities, it would be a breach of security to just send you home,” The Colonel said brusquely. “At the same token, how could I keep my superiors convinced of this article’s success if I have to exchange journalists this early in the game?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you could think of something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miss Lurance,” the Colonel shook his head, “The answer is no. I am not sending you home, and unfortunately you’ll have to finish this article.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I don’t have a choice?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neither do I.” The Colonel looked at her blankly for a moment. “It’s just a reconnaissance mission, Sheryl. It’s not like you’re going out on the front lines. There’s nothing to be complaining about, even if Sergeant Barnes doesn’t like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Colonel’s words put a sour taste in Sheryl’s mouth. “This isn’t about Sergeant Barnes, this is about my ability as a reporter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then there should be no worries,” he replied, “Unless your editor wasn’t telling me the truth about your experience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl faltered, meeting the Colonel’s eyes for an unsettling second. “No, sir. There shouldn’t be a problem.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I expect that you still follow the same guidelines I gave to you on your first day here,” the Colonel said sternly. “You are to give all drafts of your article to me for review before you send them to your editor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Teeth on edge, Sheryl nodded hesitantly. “I’ll do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” The Colonel waved his hand, almost shooing her away. “Now get out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl turned to the door, just as aggravated and defeated as she had been before she came in. Before she left the room, she could have sworn she saw the Colonel smile for the first time since she’d known him.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Falsworth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As the Howling Commandos mobilize, Sheryl gets familiar with one of the men on the team.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The blasting of a rocket made Sheryl nearly jump out of her skin and throw her satchel into the air. She clutched it to her chest as a little man with a black mustache scurried out of the ditch beside the dirt road, cackling maniacally. Sheryl swore under her breath and wiped her sweaty palms onto her black trousers, hoping that she didn’t look as shopworn as she felt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her night had been plagued by tossing and turning, barely drifting off to sleep before jolting awake as she would hallucinate a mad dog rushing towards her in the middle of the woods. When her watch read 4 AM she decided it was worthless to keep trying to sleep, so she simply rose early to dress and pack, and took the time to do her hair better than she had the entire time she’d been in Italy. At 6 she headed out to meet the Howling Commandos, who were congregating on the protected road that lead out of the military base. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jacques, stop blowing the place up!” One of the men called from the driver’s seat of the military truck that was queued up on the road, waiting to take the group fifteen miles into enemy territory, to Bellissimo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t take this,” Sheryl grumbled as she shakily sidled up to the truck. Dense pine trees loomed on either side of the road, watching her as they’d watched every other soldier that had wandered down this way and never returned. Steve, who stood on the left of the truck in his leather uniform, turned to look at her as though he’d heard her thoughts. She gestured to the back of the tented truck. “Can you help me up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry about the fireworks,” Steve said as he hoisted her up into the back of the truck like she weighed nothing. “Jacques is a little theatrical.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I can see that.” Sheryl sat beside the man called Jacques as he lit a cigarette. She briefly made eye contact with a quiet and weary Bucky Barnes, who slouched in the corner of the truck, and didn’t seem at all pleased that she was there. His blue eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark rings, as if he’d had the same night as she did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jacques winked at her as he blew out his smoke. <em>“</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>Bonjour, ma chérie.</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>”</em> </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please don’t call me Sherry,” Sheryl mumbled, trying not to sound rude. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bucky smirk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He doesn’t mean to make fun of you, miss,” said a dark skinned man as he climbed onto the truck and sat across from them. “Jacques speaks french. <em>‘</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>Chérie</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>’</em> means ‘my good lady.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It also means ‘sweetheart,’” Bucky droned in a monotone, with his head against the wall of the truck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see,” Sheryl nodded and gave Jacques a timid smile. She turned to the man across from her and Jacques and said, “We haven’t been introduced, I’m-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sheryl Lurance, the reporter,” the man interrupted with a grin, gesturing to her correspondent’s badge, wrapped around the sleeve of her gray flannel blouse. “Cap told us about you, all good things. I’m Gabe Jones, ma’am, very pleased to meet you.” Gabe said something to Jacques in french, who seemed delighted and laughed with the same enthusiasm as he had with the fireworks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl tried to hide her flattery. “Do you anticipate trouble, Gabe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, ma’am,” Gabe answered honestly, with a disarmingly toothy smile. “But in our line of work, you always have to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Sheryl said, hardly stomaching the disconcerting thought. Her hand found the golden locket hanging from her neck and twisted it in her fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two more men clambered onto the truck, one with a beret and the other with hauling a large and heavy-looking radio. Both of the men nodded at Sheryl politely as they sat down in their seats, but the truck rumbled to a start before they could make an introduction. Sheryl clutched her heart shaped locket, feeling it grow warm against her palm, preparing for the worst and wishing she had been sent home by Colonel Phillips the day before.</span>
</p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <span>Though it was mid-morning by the time they reached the outer limits of Bellissimo, it was impossible to tell by the way the clouds dimmed the sun. Everything was blue in the overcast light, and darker from the canopy of trees. The alpine forests of Northern Italy were unforgiving in these cases, and Sheryl took it about as well as she would a night lost in the wilderness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She angrily drove a stake into the ground with all the force in her upper body. The frozen earth had a hard time swallowing it, but Sheryl wiped the sweat from her brow and kept on. The truck had stopped in the middle of the woods, after having driven off the main road for half a mile. They hadn’t even reached the main village when Steve jumped out of the front of the truck, followed by the man who had been driving- a jovial looking man with an impressive mustache and a bowler hat- and told the rest of them to pile out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve gestured to the driver, and the man with the large radio. “Dugan, Morita, you two ought to come with me to scout out the area and see how things look in town,” Steve said with the assurance of a man who knew his orders would be followed. “The rest of you should set up camp here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so Sheryl was tasked with pitching her own tent, a skill she had not mastered due to her never having gone camping in her life. As she whacked another heavy stake into the ground, she heard someone whistle in awe behind her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t look fun at all,” the man said with an English accent that broke her from her grueling thoughts. She turned to see the man wearing a red beret standing beside an already pitched tent, looking amused on her behalf. “Would you like some help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? Does my technique not meet military standards?” Sheryl asked, slightly winded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not entirely.” The man crouched beside her and took the stake from her blistered hands, then hammered it into the ground with a mallet. “You’re Sheryl, the reporter that the Captain spoke so highly of, correct?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Sheryl replied, watching him expertly pitch her tent. He had the profile of what she imagined every dapper english gentleman should look like: high cheekbones, a fine mustache, and eyes such a deep blue that they were almost indigo. She looked down at his hands as they tied the canvas to the structural supports and absent-mindedly smiled to herself. “All of you seem to know my name, but I haven’t learned yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Major James Montgomery Falsworth,” he said with an elegant air as he ran a long stick through one corner of the tent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded with a coy smirk. “From the royal army.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Proudly,” he answered with a quick smile, then hoisted the tent onto its four legs. It wobbled, then stood perfectly upright. “And here you have your accommodations.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope you’re not offended if I choose a house in Bellissimo instead,” Sheryl joked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d rather join you,” he laughed, then met her eye momentarily. He looked quickly, and then said, “I hope your article is going well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So far I’ve jumped in a frozen river and lost all of my notes, so I suppose it’s going as well as the situation allows.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard. I hope that my clothes were satisfactory for you,” he said hesitantly, as if he didn’t really want to bring up the subject. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl was taken aback. “Those were your clothes?” She gave him a quick once over, trying her best to be discreet. It would have made sense that the ill fitting clothes had been his, she thought, seeing as how he was almost twice as tall as her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Captain Rogers came to my tent quite late and asked if I had a spare change of clothes. I didn’t know what he needed them for until he told me the next day,” he explained, his eyes cast down to the ground as if he were remembering the moment vividly. “He said that the girl who had come to write the article about us had fallen in the river and was close to catching hypothermia before he found someone to loan him some clothes.” He gave her a look of sympathy and relief. “I’m glad to see that you didn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she said, silently reminding herself to return his clothes as soon as possible. She paused, staring at her tent and thinking about the events of the last few days. “I can’t imagine war gets much better than that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it doesn’t,” he confirmed, regarding her as closely as if she were a piece of art. “Not even for a moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she turned to find him staring at her, she blushed and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so defeatist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be sorry, it’s not easy to keep your chin up in a place like this,” he gestured generally to their surroundings. The dormant trees were heavy with fallen snow, a layer of which rested on the ground. Sheryl knew it wasn’t like the snow back home, that came in large, rolling drifts, but it was enough to give one a chill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falsworth gazed down at her softly, with an expression that told her he knew more about her mindset than he cared to let on. “Maybe I could give you some help. You know, to get your article back on track.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, for my article,” Sheryl agreed stoically, thinking of anything but her notes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two locked eyes for an instant, listening to the sounds of the other three men still assembling their tents. Falsworth lifted Sheryl’s satchel from the ground, raising his eyebrows at the weight of the bag, and handed it to her graciously. “Why don’t you get settled first, my dear, and we’ll talk later.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl nodded, lost for words. She watched as he stepped back over to his own tent, gave her a two finger salute, and disappeared inside. She stood momentarily in a daze, wondering why he hadn’t been the one she had run into on the river two days before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From across the camp, Bucky eyed her curiously, leaning against a tree and smoking a cigarette. Sheryl glanced at him briefly with narrowed eyes, then contemptuously turned away, deciding that engaging him in conversation wasn’t worth the effort it took to form words.</span>
</p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <span>Night had fallen before Steve, Morita, and Dugan returned from their initial survey of the area. Up until that time, Sheryl had been having a lively conversation with Major Falsworth about the exciting life and times of the Howling Commandos, most of which had had her in hysterics for nearly three hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl sat with her back against a tree trunk with the collar of her green wool bomber jacket turned up against the cold and her fists tucked down into the cuffs. Major Falsworth sat to the right of her, his curly brown hair free of his hat, his face partially illuminated by the small campfire that Gabe had created an hour before sundown. She amusedly gazed across the clearing at where Gabe and Jacques played a card game that had the two of them laughing like maniacs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I’m still cuffed to the banister, the faucet’s still running, Morita is yelling like a banshee,” Falsworth said as he came to the end of his story, “and then I look and there’s the squirrel, right there!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no,” Sheryl giggled, accidentally knocking her head back against the tree. “What did you do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falsworth shrugged, laughing as he spoke, “The squirrel still thought my head was a nut, but I was able to toss him onto the Hydra guard with my free hand. Sergeant Barnes came in a few moments later, so all’s well that ends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl hummed, coming down from her laughter. At the mention of Bucky, she suddenly became sober enough to realize that he hadn’t been out of his tent since noon. “You think he’s still alive in there?” She nodded to Bucky’s tent, not too far from where they sat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure he’s just catching up on sleep,” Falsworth mused, tossing a pine twig into the fire, where it sputtered and popped. “The night before a mission is always rough, and we didn’t have much time to recuperate from the last.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did that go?” She asked. “What’s a mission like for you and the men, technically speaking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falsworth thought for a moment. “Well, to start off, there’s the Captain. He’s the operations command-” He stopped short, then nudged her pen, which was laying flat on the notebook she had set aside nearly an hour before. He motioned insistently to it, urging her to write. When she picked it up, he repeated, “He’s the operations commander. He has to keep his eye out and call the shots when he sees them. He keeps us all in check. Then, there’s Sergeant Barnes,” he gestured to the tent, “He’s ‘officially’ our sniper, but he often does close combat missions. He’s the Captain’s right hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I figured,” she muttered as she took notes. “‘Cap’s right hand,’ okay, go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smirked at her. “Then there’s Corporal Morita. He’s our communication’s expert. He’s a Japanese-American radio man, he’s got the most amazing gadgets ever. A wonderful man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An anchorman?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Most likely, with the voice he’s got, but around here he intercepts enemy frequencies.” He paused, pulling out a cigarette. “You smoke?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not yet,” Sheryl replied, refusing the cigarette he held out to her. “I’m waiting for my thirties.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” he nodded as if he understood entirely, then lit his own. “Continuing on, there’s Corporal Timothy Dugan. He goes by the nickname Dum-Dum,” he laughed, “He’s a former circus strongman. He’s our transportations specialist, but he does most of the heavy lifting when we need it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds like a story waiting to be told,” Sheryl observed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right you are, my dear.” He pointed across the campsite to where Jacques and Gabe were in an exuberant conversation about something. “Jacques Dernier is a french resistance fighter. He’s pricelessly hilarious. He’s our demolitions expert, for obvious reasons.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, he nearly blew me up when I came to meet you this morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose,” Falsworth chuckled. “Then Gabriel, he’s wonderful, the sweetest man possible- and he uses a 30 caliber machine gun that’s twice his body weight in the field. He’s absolutely volatile.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll keep that in mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not to you, of course,” Falsworth snickered. “He went to Howard University to study German, then he switched to French because, he said, the women in that class were cuter. He’s a ladies’ man, through and through.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paused, a smile lingering on his face. “Tactics. Always strategy, all day, every day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pursed her lips, having expected an entirely different answer. “You must be the worst opponent at chess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe we should play sometime and find out,” He replied easily and lifted his cigarette to his lips. “Do you play?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I used to,” she told him honestly, looking down at her boot clad feet. “I was in the chess club in high school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah! A fellow strategist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really,” she shrugged and adjusted her position. “I was kicked out because I was constantly losing. I could beat people who didn’t really know how to play, but when it came to the ones who really did know what they were doing, I couldn’t stand a chance. So I joined the yearbook committee instead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And was it better for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” She shook her head, her smile dropping. “I was an artist in a journalist’s world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you became a reporter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Story of my life,” she chuckled and ran her teeth over her bottom lip. She peered down at her red fingernails, then curled her hands back down into the sleeves of her jacket. “Are you freezing, too, or am I just weak?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think there are any weaklings here,” he replied as he took her hands and covered them with his own, so large that they dwarfed hers. “Some of us are just strong in different areas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl blushed, hoping that he wouldn’t drop her hands too soon. She somehow got the sense that, as long as she was near Falsworth, nothing would harm her; not weather, nor danger. She wanted the warmth that he kept giving her to last for as long as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A moment later, Steve Rogers ran swiftly onto the scene, followed closely by Morita and Dugan. They all three looked troubled, as if something had gone amiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Captain,” Falsworth said, suddenly sitting upright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not two seconds later, Bucky emerged from his tent with the expression of a man on a mission. He glanced briefly at Sheryl and Falsworth, sitting side by side and holding hands, before he turned fully to Steve. “What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There was no one there,” Dugan answered uncomfortably when Steve was lost for words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well that’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Sheryl asked hopefully. If there were no Hydra agents to be found, then that meant Sheryl could simply use the notes that Falsworth had given her to write a happy story on the adventures of the Howling Commandos. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, luck was not on her side. “No,” Steve finally replied, his face contorted with an emotion akin to fury. “There was </span>
  <em>
    <span>no one </span>
  </em>
  <span>there.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Special thanks to my best friend for helping me with Falsworth's wild story. Falsworth's accounts of the men are almost directly taken from the behind the scenes interviews of the howling commandos for Captain America: The First Avenger, in which J.J. Field (Falsworth) gives a rundown of the men and their positions. I headcanon that Jim Morita is a radio anchorman in San Francisco, based on personality and character profile.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Beautiful View</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Howling Commandos enter Bellissimo, for better or worse.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Silence held sway over the entire campsite. The implications of what it meant were astounding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What exactly do you mean, ‘no one was there,’” Bucky asked, moving closer to Steve. “There can’t possibly be no one in the entire town. There wasn’t an evacuation, or the base would have heard about it by now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, we don’t really know that </span>
  <em>
    <span>no one</span>
  </em>
  <span> is there,” Morita clarified, “but nobody’s roaming the streets. It’s like a ghost town.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How exactly are we meant to defend an abandoned village?” Gabe said from behind Steve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well we can’t very well do it at night,” Falsworth pointed out. He dropped Sheryl’s hand, standing up and stepping toward the group. “Did you only survey the perimeter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We entered the outer neighborhoods,” Dugan said, glancing to Steve, who nodded in agreement. “When everything seemed quiet, we checked the radio frequencies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Morita confirmed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The place is boarded up,” Steve explained wearily. “We would have looked around more, but we didn’t want to stay past nightfall.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The men looked around at each other for answers that nobody seemed to have. Sheryl sat clutching her notebook, her eyes fixed on Steve, waiting to see what his next move would be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprisingly, he clapped Falsworth on the shoulder. “Major, I need your input. Can we talk alone?” Falsworth barely nodded, but it was enough for Steve to turn and look at each of his fellow men before he disappeared into a tent. Falsworth glanced back at Sheryl apologetically and followed suit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl was alone again, sitting against a tree before a dying fire, her hands turning cold. Dugan and Morita wandered over to Gabe and Dernier, presumably to catch up on the events of the day, but Bucky had other plans.With his hands in his pockets, he sidled over towards Sheryl’s tree and crouched down, seemingly invested in something in the dirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You and Lord Falsworth seem to be getting pretty close,” he hummed as he picked up a pine twig in his fingers and lazily dragged it across the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl’s interest was piqued. Against her better judgement, she turned to look at him.<em> “</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>Lord</span>
    <span>?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky faked shock quite poorly, and twisted his on his toes so that he faced her with his elbows against his knees. “Oh, Monty didn’t tell you? He’s James Montgomery</span>
  <span> Falsworth, Lord Dymhurst.” Bucky paused with an incredulous smirk on his face. “I bet he also conveniently forgot to mention that he’s married.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl tried hard to hide her astonishment. What nearly came out as a sigh of disappointment she quickly converted into a sarcastic laugh. “Well of course a man like that is married,” she said. “Who wouldn’t want to marry him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky looked appalled. He took a knee, leaning closer to her. “What, because he has a big ol’ manor house in Hertfordshire? I have a mansion in King’s Point. He’s not special.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care how big his house is,” Sheryl continued frankly. “I’d just love to return from Europe as an aristocrat. Can you imagine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky gave a sardonic laugh, then looked boredly toward the heavens. “Oh, it’s not hard to. You act so much like a princess already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Sheryl’s turn to be appalled. She nodded to herself, sucking on her teeth angrily, then gathered her notebook and pen, and stood to leave. “Good night, Sergeant Barnes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just out of curiosity,” he said before she had taken two steps, “why are you here if you hate it so much?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, should I be </span>
  <em>
    <span>enjoying</span>
  </em>
  <span> war?” She squinted at him in the light of the campfire, his hair highlighted in sienna, his eyes dark and foreboding. “Or just your company?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged, stood up, and leaned against the tree while pulling a flask out of his pocket. “Just seems to me like you’re not really interested in doing your job.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? How’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, for starters, you haven’t really made an attempt to get to know any of the men,” he pointed out, using his flask to gesticulate wildly. “Aside from Lord Falsworth, who, I should think, isn’t really the most important person here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m getting the information I need.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what, a gossip rag?” He shook his head with an intense scowl, looking at her like she was the biggest puzzle on Earth. “Is that what you write? Cute gossip columns that have nothing to do with reality?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know a damn thing about the work I do,” she argued defensively. “I don’t like being here because I don’t revel at the idea of danger the way you seem to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t revel at the idea of danger,” he retorted, “I just imagined that maybe a </span>
  <em>
    <span>war</span>
  </em>
  <span> correspondent would have something to say about </span>
  <em>
    <span>war</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and not about glamour.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gave a tight, fake smile. “Well, I’m not a soldier and I’m not interested in dying for my job, but I have to be here, whether you like it or not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He raised his eyebrows and unscrewed the cap of his flask, then lifted it toward her in a jesting toast. “Well, here’s hoping you don’t die.” He knocked it back and took an enormous swig, then looked back at her with a coy smile on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was an expression that told her he knew what he was doing, he was just waiting to see what she would do. Stunned and unable to come up with a response, Sheryl turned away, hoping that sleep would be quicker and kinder to her than it had the night before, since it again proved to be infinitely preferable to his company. </span>
</p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <span>Bellissimo di Visale, a small hamlet in the municipality of Chions, had all the rustic appeal of small town Europe mixed with the eerie gloom of abandoned-wild-western-ghost-town America. Buildings loomed in lonesome silence, boarded up and dark the way a town might be in anticipation of an air raid. Children's toys, bicycles, and overturned garbage cans appeared here and there on the empty streets, like the world had gotten up and simply left them behind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl stood on the apex of a hill, just inside the forest treeline, and took a deep, shaky breath as she peered down at the unsettlingly silent village. She did her best to steel herself to her first real day on the job. To her right, Dugan, Bucky, and Flasworth stood in fervent group discussion. Sheryl reflexively snapped a picture of the men at work, not knowing if she’d use it later. As she reeled her camera film to the next frame, she saw Dugan’s large and impressive figure approach her out of the corner of her eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl and Dugan had already gotten acquainted as they walked together through the lonely frostbitten trees, him answering her burning questions about his life and her laughing at his wisecracks; as lovely and jovial of a man as he was, she found it near impossible not to want to talk to him. Yet, as they had neared the east end of Bellissimo, all pretenses dropped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Frightening, isn’t it?” Dugan stared pensively out at the quiet village. His large mustache barely hid the curvature of his frown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Sheryl took a picture of the view for posterity. “Do you see many places like it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not abandoned like this, no. But Italy seems to be full of these little villages. I can’t stand ‘em, I’m from Boston.” He glanced sideways at her. “You?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It reminds me of home, in a way,” she replied sullenly, tucking her hands into her black trouser pockets. Sheryl glanced back over at Falsworth and Bucky, who still spoke in hushed tones. She shook her head with disdain, the circumstances of their group arrangement only freshly cemented in her mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Howling Commandos had set out toward Bellissimo early in the morning, as dawn broke over the Italian countryside. As the group had neared the village limits, Steve had stopped them all for a brief meeting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll split into groups,” Steve had spoken with the tone of one who had clearly planned his every move. “Bucky, Dugan, Falsworth, you three start on the east end. Gabe, Morita, Dernier, you’re with me in the west.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And me?” Sheryl looked at him expectantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve faltered. “You can go with whoever-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, Cap,” Bucky had interjected, clapping him on the shoulder with a tight smile. “I’ll keep her safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl clenched her teeth and glared into thin air. “Of course you will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Always do.” Bucky marched past Sheryl, barely acknowledging her and not waiting for any further instructions from the Captain. As Steve and his men headed in the opposite direction, Dugan had given a perplexed look to Sheryl, but fell into step with Bucky without a word, a large gun slung from his shoulder. Falsworth followed suit, but only after giving Sheryl a quick smile and nod of pleasantry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Sheryl stood above the east end of town, eyeing the two men suspiciously, unhappily reduced to loitering on the sidelines as the men discussed their secret plans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose we’re together on this one,” Dugan offered, as light hearted as he could be, given the circumstances. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl gave him a half-hearted smile. “You don’t care for battle tactics?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“These are my battle tactics,” he said, patting the enormous gun over his shoulder. “Those two are the brains, I’m just the brawn, as they say.” They stood side by side, falling comfortably into silence. After a beat, Dugan said, “I’m not sure what’s got Barnes so angry, but the glares he’s been giving Falsworth are pretty severe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He seems to think we’re in love,” she answered dully.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You and Falsworth?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s married.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl had to laugh. “Barnes  mentioned that. He also promptly insulted everything about my character in the same breath.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dugan was quiet for a moment, staring out at the village like he was looking for answers to some great philosophical question. “That doesn’t sound like Barnes at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you say that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because Barnes is the biggest womanizer I’ve ever met,” he gave her a hesitant look, “and that’s putting it mildly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I suppose I’m just special,” Sheryl concluded sourly, perturbed at the idea. “He’s been a thorn in my side since I ran into him. I’d prefer it if we never had met.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something tells me he doesn’t share that sentiment,” Dugan shrewdly answered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A fleeting sense of intrigue wormed its way up Sheryl’s spine. The only thoughts she’d given to Bucky so far were mostly curses. He was handsome, yes, extremely handsome. Too handsome for Sheryl’s liking, if she was honest. Often times, she found herself more comfortable around the scrawny, gangly fellows with disproportionately big features, as they were often more personable and not ruled by their looks. Now, as she watched Bucky standing assuredly beside a man who he, for some reason, viewed as an opponent, she realized that he wasn’t too overly concerned with outward appearances. But, at the moment, that was the only thing she could say in his favor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think he torments me because he likes me?” She scoffed. “We’re not in grade school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dugan smirked at her, a strange glint coming to his eye. “I think there’s more to Barnes than you seem to realize. I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We ready?” Bucky called to them, ten paces away.  He hoisted his rifle over his shoulder and nodded down the slope toward the still neighborhood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Bucky and Falsworth forged ahead, Sheryl dawdled behind with Dugan. Bellissimo would have been charming in its “stuck in the middle ages” style, had there been any signs of life.  The morning light did nothing for the atmosphere; trudging down ancient cobblestone paths, closed in by masonry stone townhouses that peered at them with creeping eyes, Sheryl couldn’t stomach the sinking feeling that somehow the forest was friendlier than this place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A breeze trickled through the town like a sigh. Sheryl stopped to take in the facade of a crumbling townhome in a small piazza leading to a medieval chapel. The aura of stillness permeated everything in the vicinity, giving the sense that something, or someone, was still here, just simply waiting. Waiting for what, Sheryl did not know, but as she took in the sight of the sagging building, she felt it staring back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pictures couldn’t possibly do the town justice, but she still took them as she walked, slowly and unsurely, behind the three men. “What exactly are we looking for?” She asked as she pointed her camera toward the old chapel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything unusual,” Bucky answered without looking at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean besides it being abandoned?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dugan and Falsworth laughed, but Bucky didn’t validate her question with a reply. He continued to ramble on as Sheryl remained stationery, reeling her camera film to the next frame. When she looked back at the chapel, she did a double take. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The chapel’s open,” she observed aloud, approaching it curiously. The weathered oak door hung ajar, creaking in the breeze, in contrast to the rest of the boarded up buildings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sheryl, don’t.” Falsworth grabbed Sheryl’s wrist to stop her from wandering unassumingly into a trap. He looked to Bucky and jerked his head in the direction of the door, as if to say, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>you first</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky carefully moved toward the chapel door, his rifle pointed at it as a precaution. He nudged the door open, peeked in, and quickly jumped back with an ungraceful gag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” Dugan asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stinks,” Bucky coughed, rubbing his nose with his sleeve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In an uncharacteristic act of bravery, Sheryl pulled her wrist out of Falsworth’s grasp and stepped over toward Bucky to see inside the chapel. She pushed open the door to be greeted with the most unholy stench she had ever experienced. She covered her nose with her sleeve and shuddered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The inside of the chapel gave every indication of how old it really was. Exposed wooden rafters held aloft the tile roof, while stone walls kept in the heavy odor. Four stained glass windows depicting the life of Christ cast multicolored beams of light across rows of overturned and battered pews. Sheryl’s gaze followed the path up to the altar, where she squinted through the dark haze until she recognized what was there, screamed, and whipped around only to smack directly into Bucky’s chest. Bucky grunted and instinctively wrapped his free arm around her upper back, as if to hold her away from the gruesome scene. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bodies, dozens of them, lay on and around the altar in a haphazard manner. “Dead,” Dugan stated as he removed his bowller hat, staring at the carnage inside. “They’re all dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But why are they here?” Falsworth materialized behind Dugan, squinting into the darkness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky released Sheryl, who refused to face back into the church. He cautiously stepped over the threshold of the building, trying to stay alert but unable to refrain from covering his nose and mouth. Dugan and Falsworth followed him inside, but Sheryl remained, clutching her camera against her chest as a familiar feeling of dread sank down into her stomach and began to tense all of her muscles one by one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no blood,” she heard Dugan say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could it have been influenza?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, all of a sudden? They’re in a pile.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It might have been gas.” Bucky tensely looked around at the scaffolding for any indication of gas jets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl took a few rapid breaths and steeled herself to turn around and join the three men. She stepped hesitantly down the aisle and came to a stop just over Falsworth’s right shoulder, trying hard not to look at the altar for too long. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It looks like they were dumped here,” she stuttered out after briefly surveying the scene, and averted her eyes quickly. “Someone killed them and brought them here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How can you tell?” Bucky asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl inched forward, wanting only to keep as far away from the bodies as possible. She stopped five feet from an elderly woman who lay sprawled across the end of the aisle, her eyes closed as if she were sleeping, but her body contorted unnaturally. The sight brought a lump to Sheryl’s throat, as she felt the pain of every individual on the altar fill her at once. “People don’t just fall down dead like this. Someone carried them in and dumped them all after they were dead. They were killed somewhere else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But how can you tell they were killed? There’s no blood, no sign of struggle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are plenty of ways to be killed,” Sheryl replied quietly, feeling the bite of tears at the back of her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the silence that followed, a scuff of a boot behind the altar made the four of them jump. Dugan instinctively raised his gun and shot, the bang ringing painfully in Sheryl’s ears. She barely heard Bucky shout for her to get down as a man jumped out from a dark doorway behind the altar, firing a large gun at the group. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl screamed and tripped to fall behind a pew as bullets flew overhead. She lay on the floor with her cheek pressed against the cold stone, her arms wrapped around her head in a poor attempt to keep her extremities safe. Glass shattered and rained across the pews. She rolled over to shake the glass off, her heartbeat racing at 600 beats per second through the tightness constricting her chest. Her mind reeling and her body on autopilot, she silently cursed the editor who sent her into the lion’s den and expected nothing to go wrong. </span>
  <em>
    <span>God damn you, Hugh Neilson. I hope when they find my body, they’ll get the sorry asshole who did it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She heard shouting in between the gunfire. At the end of her pew Major Falsworth fell to the ground and lay there, immobile. She couldn’t be sure if he had been hit or if he was simply unconscious, but a moment later she saw the boots of an unfamiliar soldier in distinctly German attire stride past the Major, toward where she knew Bucky to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If he dies, I die</span>
  </em>
  <span>, was her only thought as she crawled toward Major Falsworth. She hastened to unfasten a hand grenade from his belt loop, surprised at how heavy it felt in her palm. Without thinking, she abruptly got up on her knees to see over the wooden bench in front of her, weighing the grenade in her hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The German soldier closed in behind Bucky, brandishing a large club in his right hand. Bucky, completely unaware, was preoccupied with firing his rifle over a pew six rows in front of Sheryl, while another soldier shot at him from the cover of the darkened doorway behind the altar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl pulled back her arm and, with a good hard throw, clocked the German soldier in the head with the hand grenade. The soldier staggered for a moment before he fell to the ground beside Bucky with a heavy thud, while the grenade bounced away out of arm's reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky paused to look at the soldier, then looked back at Sheryl, bewildered. Another shot from the man in the doorway sprang Bucky into action; he picked up his rifle, shot it one last time into the abyss, and ran towards Sheryl with his head ducked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you insane? What are you doing?” He yelled at her, roughly pulling her down behind the pew as more shots rang out overhead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Saving your life,” she shouted back, then cried out as a bullet splintered the wood above her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have to get out of here,” Bucky hollered into her ear. He pointed at the open door. “I want you to crawl out, you understand? Don’t look back!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about you?” She screamed as she sank down further, holding onto his arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m right behind you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky all but pushed Sheryl out into the aisle. She clumsily crawled over Major Falsworth’s body and headed for the door. She found no sign of Dugan anywhere; Sheryl imagined he had been attacked by her German opponent as well, but with no way of knowing for sure, she assumed the worst. Fearing for her own life, she scuttled through the open door before slipping around to lean against the stone wall of the building. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky came barrelling out beside her as he slung his rifle over his shoulder, grabbed her hand, and started running through the piazza and down the street the way they came. Shots fired behind them and whizzed past Sheryl’s ear, making her head whirl worse than it already was. Bucky looked over at her and yanked her around a building corner, coming to a halt in the doorway of a boarded up townhouse. She crashed against the stone wall and heaved her breath, trying to blink away the blackness that was threatening to close in around her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stood in silence, in horrid anticipation for what was to come. Sheryl tried to steady her uncontrollable shaking. “Falsworth and Dugan-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can’t help them now,” Bucky said with thinly veiled panic, surveying the area with a keen eye. “The shots have probably alerted any of the scouts in the area. We need to find a safe way out before-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bullet exploded on the stone wall beside Sheryl’s left shoulder. Bucky grabbed Sheryl by the arm and pulled her against him, then grabbed a pistol from his belt and aimed it up at the roof of the building across the street. With her eyes squeezed tightly shut, Sheryl heard two more shots rip through the air, followed by a pain in her shoulder, as if she’d been suddenly punched. She lost her footing and toppled backward, like the ground was moving beneath her feet. It took only a second for her to realize that Bucky had thrown himself backwards against the townhouse door, clutching her to his chest as they crashed together through the aged wood. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Bellissimo di Visale ('Beautiful View') is loosely based, in nomenclature, on Villotta di Visale ('Cottage View'), a small village in the Pordenone Province of Italy. Otherwise it is inspired by various medieval Tuscan towns, such as Sienna and Verona, and has no true basis in reality. Following the backstory provided in the Howling Commandos comics, J.M. Falsworth is Lord Dymhurst of Hertfordshire, an English aristocrat who later becomes Union Jack.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Dobbiamo Cauterizzare</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sheryl suffers from new and old wounds</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When she was 11 years old, Sheryl had taken it upon herself to learn how to do a backbend. Not because she was involved in any kind of gymnastics, but simply because she liked the idea that she could fold herself in half at will and catch herself when she fell. The downside was that her botched attempts often left her lying on her back, unable to breathe, as the air had been forcibly thrown from her lungs on impact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they toppled backward through a rotting wooden door, she felt the familiar pain that came with getting the wind knocked out of her when they crashed ungracefully onto the floor of the townhouse entryway, her back slamming against Bucky’s chest. She coughed, gasping for air, but didn’t quite get the recovery time she needed before Bucky dragged her backwards across the hardwood floor, legs tangling with hers as he frantically crawled to take shelter behind the stone wall of the front room windowsill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tears began to stream down her face as bullets flew through the boarded up window, shattering the glass across their huddled bodies. Bucky reached up and punched a hole in the bottom corner of the window, just enough for him to point his pistol through and shoot at their assailant in the building across the street. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky’s free arm pinned Sheryl to his chest, to keep her from moving away from her collapsed position between his legs as he fired blindly through the window. She clutched his arm like a teddy bear, her face turned against his bicep, crying as she felt the broken glass rain down upon her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to die!” She shouted, curling further into him as the bullets from outside began shattering items around the interior of the house. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t let you die,” he yelled insistently into her ear. A bullet hit the window dangerously close to his firing hand, and he quickly recoiled from it with a curse. He wrapped both arms around her and hugged her close, rocking her back and forth with his head against hers. “I won’t let you die. Take a deep breath, Sherry, you’ll be okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sobbed and squeezed his arm harder. “Please don’t call me Sherry, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>.”</em> A vase shattered on the table beside them, making her scream and hide her face against his arm again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, I’m sorry, it’ll be okay.” Bucky repeated the words over and over while he fumbled with his pistol and reloaded it. He stretched to peer through the hole in the broken window, then raised the pistol deliberately and fired two shots. Not a moment later, the gunfire ceased. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky collapsed backward against the side of a forest green armchair, embracing a sobbing Sheryl as if the world could wait for the two of them. His chin tucked against her shoulder, he whispered soothing words that she could hear but not comprehend as she shivered and gasped for breath. When she had calmed down enough for her tears to subside, he released his hold on her and sat back, but only for a moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand, which had been pressed against her left shoulder, came away bloody. He halted as he stared at his blood covered hand, slowly wrapping his other arm back around her waist. He carefully leaned forward to see her shoulder; there, on the front of her green bomber jacket, a large red stain bloomed across the fabric. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sheryl,” he said cautiously, trying to remain calm so that he didn’t alarm her. “You’re bleeding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” She asked dully, as if she hadn’t even heard him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re bleeding,” he repeated, his voice wavering. “Your shoulder’s been shot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a few seconds for his words to register; when they did, Sheryl became inconsolable. She gave a whimper as she recognized the pain of the wound through her adrenaline, and then began hyperventilating through her racking sobs. Her body tensed up and started to shake, her grip on his arm disturbingly strong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky opened his mouth to try and calm her down but was cut short, as the barrel of a shotgun touched his temple. He froze, keeping his grip on the hysterical girl between his legs, and followed the barrel of the gun with his eyes to find the wrinkled face of an angry old woman at its hilt. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“</span>
    <span>Lei chi sei?</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>”</em> The old woman hissed, cocking the gun. <em>“</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>Cosa vuoi?</span>
    <span>”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky cursed and glanced back down at the top of Sheryl’s head. She trembled and found it hard to catch her breath, and the old woman only added to her strain. Bucky motioned to Sheryl’s injury and said in stumbling Italian, <em>“</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>Per favore aiuto.</span>
    <span>”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The barrel of the gun dug into his forehead. <em>“</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>Tedesco stronzo! Perché dovrei aiutarti?</span>
    <span>”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky squinted up at the old woman, trying to comprehend her reply. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound friendly. He reached into the collar of his uniform and pulled out his dog tags, brandishing the american flag etched into one.<em> “</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>Siamo Americani</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>,”</em> he said urgently.<em> “</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>Per favore, lei é mia ragazza</span>
    <span>.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>For a nerve-racking second, Sheryl was sure the old woman was going to blow his head off. Instead, to both of their great relief, she lowered her shotgun and passively waved them towards what looked like the entrance to the kitchen. <em>“</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>Dai</span>
    <span>.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Die? Did she just tell us to die?” Sheryl all but shouted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She told us to follow her,” Bucky answered softly, trying to move his legs. “She’s going to help us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to die,” Sheryl cried as Bucky helped her up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said and picked her up to carry her into the kitchen. The old woman fixed him with a cold, disconcerting glare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to see him yet, not like this,” Sheryl whispered to herself as her hands clung to the collar of his uniform and she squeezed her eyes shut against the pain and her own foul thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky set her down on the wooden kitchen table, per the old woman’s instruction. The old woman gave him an irritated look. <em>“</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>Lei deve spogliarsi</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>.”</em> </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky gesticulated wildly in confusion. “‘She must’ what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“</span>
    <span>Spogliarsi</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>,”</em> the old woman reiterated insistently, and mimed removing her shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Bucky pet the back of Sheryl’s head, as if it would make her stop sobbing into his uniform long enough to follow the instructions. “We need to take your shirt off so we can see the wound.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl’s sobs only grew in intensity. “It hurts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know it hurts,” he said into her hair, “but we have to, or I’ll have to cut through your clothes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl gave a small nod against his chest. Bucky made eye contact with the unpleasant old woman before he moved to carefully slide Sheryl’s wool jacket off her shoulders. Sheryl cried out when his fingers grazed her wound, making him jump in alarm. He paused to let her breathe, before painstakingly continuing to remove the heavy jacket from her arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let the jacket drop to the floor when it was free. Her white silk blouse was another issue; soaked with blood and stuck to her wound, there was no way it was salvageable. “Sheryl, I’m going to have to cut your blouse off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, no,” she begged, pressing her palms against his chest. “No cutting, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky pursed his lips and glanced at the old woman.<em> “</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>Vai avanti!</span>
    <span>”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky sighed and pulled back from Sheryl so that he could unbutton her blouse. His fingers delicately moved down the row of tiny fastenings, trying not to tug too hard on the fabric that stuck to her skin. He avoided her eyes, as they spilled tears down her flushed cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the blouse came off, he held it in his hand for a moment, staring at the garish hole in her shoulder. Blood seeped from it, running across her chest and down her arm. Her heart shaped locket stuck to her chest, tarnished red on gold. He moved to turn away when he stopped and did a double take at the equally grotesque scar on Sheryl’s right bicep. Puffy and red, it curled around her arm like a bracelet, zig-zagging its way across the skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl caught sight of the blood soaked shirt in his hand, and her eyes bugged out. “Blood,” she choked out, “there’s so much blood!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky quickly tossed the shirt onto the floor by her jacket and hugged her, his hand cradling the back of her head. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he lied, and nodded to the old woman. “We’re going to look at the wound, okay? I’m going to lay you down-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I knew this would happen,” Sheryl whispered frantically, clinging to Bucky’s shirt as he laid her down on the table. “I knew that if I took this job I would die-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not going to die,” Bucky insisted, trying to step aside to let the old woman examine Sheryl’s wound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl held him firmly in place, bent over the table, staring down into her face. Tears spilled down her temples and into her hair as she said, “You were right about me. I don’t deserve this job.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say that, I didn’t mean it.” Bucky’s hand hovered above her exposed ribcage, barely touching her skin, as if his propriety was getting the better of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so scared,” she breathed, gazing fearfully into his eyes. “I’m so scared of death, I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come. It shouldn’t have been me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky glanced at the old woman, who looked perturbed at the sight of the bullet wound. <em>“</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>Il proiettile é bloccato.</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>”</em> She left the table and went hunting through one of the kitchen drawers. When she returned, she held a knife and a pair of small cooking tongs. Bucky grimaced and held up his hand to tell the woman to pause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great.” Bucky sighed and looked back at Sheryl. “Sheryl, tell me about your home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Home, where’s your home?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl coughed. “Belfast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ireland?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Maine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Close your eyes. I want you to see your home. Can you see it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl scrunched up her face in an attempt to concentrate. “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky waved the old woman forward. “Tell me what you see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a-” Sheryl thought for a moment. “It’s a new house, from 1940. It’s got a victory garden on the side that my mom planted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old woman pressed the knife down into Sheryl’s wound; the scream that erupted forth from Sheryl’s lungs cut right into Bucky’s ears and made him jump. Sheryl writhed on the table and yanked at Bucky’s uniform jacket, kicking and banging her head back against the wood, but somehow managing to keep her shoulder still for the old woman to reach in with the tongs and quickly pull the bullet out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old woman picked up a wet rag and slapped it against Bucky’s arm before turning toward the stove. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dobbiamo cauterizzare.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Bucky whispered an apology to Sheryl, who was beginning to see stars. He tenderly began to wipe away the blood on her shoulder with the rag. “Sheryl, she’s going to cauterize the wound.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, you can.” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles, then held it against his chest. “You’re doing so well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl pleaded at him with her eyes, but when it became clear to her that there was no way to stop what was to come, she shook her head weakly and raised her eyes toward the ceiling. “My bedroom is blue and has wooden floors. At night I like to put on my prettiest dress and dance to Bing Crosby on the radio.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sad smile ghosted across Bucky’s face. His voice cracked as he said, “What if I joined you sometime?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d sneak you in the back door. Mom wouldn’t like a man in the house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old woman approached, the knife she held now glowing from the stovetop fire. Bucky adjusted his hold on Sheryl’s hand. “I promise I’ll be quiet. She won’t even know I’m there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quick nod to the old woman, and the glowing knife sizzled against Sheryl’s open wound. Sheryl, overcome with pain, barely had time to scream. Her vision swam, and Bucky’s face lingered in her mind before she completely succumbed to the darkness. </span>
</p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She was in the forest again, on that same moonless night. Stumbling, weak, delirious, she tripped and threw her hands against the nearest tree to steady herself. Darkness clung to the black night the way she clung to the memory of him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She staggered past the tree, her balance off kilter. There was no path before her or behind her, just infinite trees, looming out of the abyss apathetically. The trees did not care. The trees had been here before, time and time again. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She ripped the locket from her neck as she tripped along. In retrospect, she should have brought a flashlight. At least she could have seen him one more time before infinity. Yet, in the blackness, with nothing but the Milky Way to shine through the trees, she pried open the golden heart and ran her thumb tenderly across the aged picture. Soon enough she’d see him again. Soon enough, there would be nothing else. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The wolf, there it was. Lurking through the trees, just close enough for her to hear its huffing breath. The panic that pierced her being became the only thought on her mind. Would she escape again, or would it catch her? She watched the wolf skulk through the trees, but when it emerged and stood on two legs she realized it wasn’t a wolf this time. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It was Bucky. Or was it? His face was the same, but his eyes were yellow, glowing in the dark. He wore only a pair of tattered trousers, and was otherwise covered in streaks of dirt and blood, like he had recently clawed his way out of the earth. He knelt before her, like he prepared to charge, and bared his teeth. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sheryl turned and fled, hoping to save the life she had wanted to end only a moment before. Her legs, so weak that she could barely control them, didn’t want to stay under her. She stumbled along, the evil thing gaining on her, his rabid breath hitting the back of her legs. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The lights of the house were dead ahead. If only she could get to them. If only she wouldn’t hit the tree. Not this time, not this time. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She swerved, the sharp branch narrowly missing her arm. Instead, she heard a wail, high pitched and beastly, come from the evil thing behind her. She stumbled up onto the back stoop, clutching her locket, clutching her life, ripping the door open, and looking back over her shoulder. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He tottered on the grass, blood oozing from the gash in his neck. His yellow eyes blazed at her. He crawled forward two paces and collapsed, hands outstretched toward her. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She fell into the house, the screen door swinging shut. Next time she might not be so lucky. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Italian Translations*<br/>Lei chi sei?-  Who are you?<br/>Cosa vuoi?- What do you want?<br/>Per favore aiuto- Please help<br/>Tedesco stronzo! Perché dovrei aiutarti?- German asshole! Why should I help you?<br/>Siamo Americani- We are American<br/>Per favore, lei é mia ragazza- Please, she is my girlfriend<br/>Dai- Come<br/>Lei deve spogliarsi- She must undress<br/>Vai avanti!- Go ahead!<br/>Il proiettile é bloccato- The bullet is stuck/blocked<br/>Dobbiamo cauterizzare- We must cauterize<br/>*I have a rudimentary background in Italian and rely heavily on google translate, despite its inaccuracy. I apologize for any mistakes in grammar or vocabulary.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. That Old Black Magic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bucky and Sheryl team up to face their battles, both internal and external.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sheryl woke to low afternoon light shining across her eyes. When she squinted past the light shining from between the slats of the boarded up window, Sheryl discovered she lay in a dingy, unkempt bedroom not unlike her own, except that the yellow wallpaper peeled from the walls, exposing old, cracked drywall. Dusty old knick-knacks and picture frames dotted the vanity dresser, the mirror on top tarnished with age. </p><p>The face in the mirror that stared back at her was barely her own: someone had taken the time to wipe the dirt and tears from her drawn cheeks, but her with her haggard complexion, pale lips, and unkempt hair, she looked no better than a feral animal from an alleyway. A soft blanket wrapped around her shoulders kept her decent, but when she lifted aside the blanket to find dried blood staining the entire left side of her satin bra, she lost all hope of being able to salvage any of her own clothing. The cotton bandage wrapped tightly around her shoulder kept the wound at bay, but when she moved she felt the twinge of electric pain shoot up her arm and into her chest, and she bit back a yelp as she became fully aware of the throbbing, angry ache accompanying her slowly healing wound. </p><p>“Does anyone ever tell you your hair looks golden in the sunlight?”</p><p>Sheryl turned her aching head toward Bucky, who sat in an antique wooden armchair in the corner, leaning his head against his right hand. His fingers splayed out unnaturally across his temple, cheek, and jaw, pushing his skin in different directions. He eyed her broodingly and then let go of his face, sitting up as he cleared his throat. “Sleep well?”</p><p>“No.” Sheryl lay back against a stack of gray pillows that kept her propped up so she could look at him. Through the unbearable throbbing in her head and shoulder, she managed to form words. “I dreamt that you were a wolf and you chased me through the woods. I killed you.”</p><p>“That’s-” he frowned, searching for a reply. “Thanks.” He paused, and a smirk slowly stretched across his face. “You really brained that soldier in the church. You should pitch for the Yankees.”</p><p>Sheryl shook her head defiantly. “Sox.”</p><p>
  <em> “ Yankees.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “ Sox.” </em>
</p><p>“You’re incorrigible.”</p><p>Sheryl laughed, comforted by his sense of humor. “How long was I asleep?”</p><p>“About a day,” Bucky replied with a tired voice. “I was almost afraid you wouldn’t wake up.”</p><p>“Oh.” Sheryl’s breath caught in her throat. “I suppose I was afraid of that, too.”</p><p>They were quiet for a moment, gazing at each other uncomfortably. Sheryl remembered everything he had said to her before she blacked out; every word of comfort, every promise that she would be okay, and the kiss he had placed on her hand all played on a loop in her mind as she stared at him, sitting in the corner like a stranger. </p><p>The doorway to the bedroom suddenly darkened as the old woman, whose handiwork had patched Sheryl’s shoulder, toddled into the room holding a tray with a silvery teapot and two white cups, and placed it on the table at Sheryl’s bedside. The old woman caressed Sheryl’s cheek with the back of her finger and fondly said, <em>“</em> <em> Bella cara </em> <em>.”</em> She turned to Bucky and gave him a sour face. <em>“</em> <em>La tua ragazza? Puah!” </em> The old woman left the room, muttering, <em>“</em> <em> Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo. ” </em></p><p>“What did she just say?” Sheryl looked at Bucky. </p><p>“I don’t know Italian.”</p><p>“Don’t lie to me, I heard you talk to her.” Sheryl narrowed her eyes at him. “What did she say?”</p><p>Bucky looked uncomfortable. “She called you beautiful.”</p><p>“Right. And?”</p><p>“And I think she called me an ugly bastard, or something along those lines.” He rubbed the back of his neck, gazing up at the cracked ceiling. “Her name is Gianna, I think. She let us stay here after you passed out because she was worried about you. Apparently this is her daughter’s old room.”</p><p>Sheryl processed all of that information. “What does <em> ragazza </em> mean?”</p><p>“I only know enough Italian to get by,” he lied again. </p><p>“I heard you say it to her before. What does it mean?” </p><p>Bucky sighed in defeat, a flush beginning to redden his cheeks and hairline. “Okay, she was holding me at gunpoint and I <em> thought </em> <em>,</em> okay, I <em> thought </em>she would help you if you were my-” he shuffled in his seat- “if I told her you were my girlfriend.”</p><p>Sheryl giggled, then began to laugh uncontrollably. Bucky frowned, and sat still, clutching the arms of his chair, waiting for her to say something. </p><p>“All that fuss because you said I was your girlfriend?” She giggled. “God, I thought it meant something like ‘she’s dying.’” </p><p>Relief washed over Bucky’s face as he settled back into his chair. He rested his chin on his knuckles, watching her as she snorted through her laughter. When she quieted down, he abruptly asked her, “How did you get that scar on your arm?”</p><p>Sheryl fell silent, her eyes instinctively falling down to the scar in question. It looked almost as if someone had taken a jagged piece of glass and ripped open the skin in one curved gash. Sheryl opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it, and finally said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”</p><p>Bucky nodded and glanced down at his knees, biting his bottom lip in frustration. “You whispered something to me before I put you on the table. You said, ‘I don’t want to see him yet.’” He watched her as she refused to look at him, picking at her chipped nail polish instead. “What did you mean by that?”</p><p>Sheryl waved him off. “I was panicking and thought I was gonna die. I wasn’t thinking straight.”</p><p>Bucky scrutinized her for a few seconds before deciding to accept her answer. “Okay.” </p><p>Sheryl reached to pick up the silver teapot, but the pain of her shoulder made her flinch and recoil back into her original position. “You don’t by any chance have a painkiller, do you?”</p><p>“What do I look like, a medic?” Bucky stood and moved to the bedside table, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress as he poured a cup of whatever was in the teapot for Sheryl to drink. “In these situations, it’s usually Morita who plays doctor. He’s got some medical training, so he knows more than the rest of us. But since Morita isn’t <em> here </em>right now-” bitterness clung to Bucky’s voice. </p><p>Sheryl took the cup Bucky handed to her and hung her head. “We’re stuck here, aren’t we?”</p><p>“For the time being, yes.” Bucky glanced over his shoulder at the door, then lowered his voice as he leaned closer to Sheryl, as if he were conspiring with her. “Gianna says that they’ve been in town for two weeks. When the townsfolk began to go missing, the rest either escaped or went into hiding. She’s been holed up for a while.”</p><p>“And we’re the sorry idiots who broke through her door,” Sheryl concluded and took a sip of her drink. The chocolate and malt flavor threw her into such a nostalgic wave that her head reeled. “Is this <em> ovaltine ?” </em></p><p>Bucky grabbed her hand and pulled the cup toward his face to take a quick sip. Sheryl stared at him in shock as he nodded. “Yep. Really stale ovaltine.”</p><p>“They get ovaltine in rural Italy?”</p><p>Bucky shrugged. “How should I know? It probably was donated to the town by the base a year or two ago.”</p><p>Sheryl went to take another sip as a suddenly giddy feeling swept through her. With a minute shiver said, “So, what’s the plan, Sergeant? Ready to go back into battle with lil ol’ me?”</p><p>Bucky eyed her for a moment, an unreadable expression written across his face. “With you like that?” He gestured to her shoulder. “We’re staying here. For now.”</p><p>“Don’t they know we’re here?”</p><p>“Well, they haven’t come knocking, and it’s been a day and a half,” Bucky reasoned. “I’d say, if they were going to come get us, they’d have done it by now.”</p><p>“And all this time we haven’t had a door?”</p><p>“I patched that up after we put you here,” Bucky replied, fiddling with a pom-pom attached to the quilt, “as a token of good faith to Gianna. She doesn’t like me much.”</p><p>“You don’t say.”</p><p>“But she likes you,” he continued. “She says you remind her of her daughter.”</p><p>Sheryl smirked, handing him the half-empty cup of ovaltine. “And what about the other men? Dugan and Falsworth?”</p><p>“No idea,” Bucky answered shortly, his demeanor suddenly shifting. “But don’t worry. I have a feeling you’ll see your british boyfriend soon enough.”</p><p>“He’s not my boyfriend,” Sheryl retorted in exasperation. “For christ’s sake, Barnes.”</p><p>Barnes shrugged, “Could’a fooled me, with that talk about chess and all the hand holding-”</p><p>“You were eavesdropping?” Sheryl shot him an accusatory look. Blood rushed in her ears as she felt her heart rate increase, nausea building in her stomach. </p><p>“Well, you weren’t exactly being quiet,” Bucky replied. He set the cup of ovaltine down on the tray and stood up. “Anyways, I wouldn’t worry too much, if I were you. I doubt Dugan and Falsworth are dead. Believe me, it’s not how Hydra works.”</p><p>The familiar feeling of dizziness that accompanied panic attacks began to spin forth in Sheryl’s head. Sheryl blinked slowly, trying to dial back the impending head rush. “And how does Hydra work?”</p><p>“Mainly, they like to work in espionage. Gathering information, abductions, experimentation…” Bucky trailed off, swaying on his feet, grabbing the bedknob near him to steady himself. “Drugging targets to weaken their reflexes.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p><em> “ Fuck. </em> <em>”</em> Bucky stumbled and caught himself on the iron footboard. Sheryl fought to blink away the darkness closing in. It wasn’t just a head rush. It wasn’t anything of her body’s own doing. </p><p>Sheryl collapsed back against the gray pillows on the bed, her hand flying to her feverish forehead. Though her eyelids grew heavy, she could vaguely comprehend the image of Gianna creeping up behind Bucky, a fireplace poker poised above her shoulder like a baseball bat. </p><p>“Behind you,” Sheryl murmured as quickly as she could, the urgency in her mind not agreeing with the sluggishness of her body. Bucky turned just shy of too late, able to dodge toward the antique armchair as Gianna’s iron poker came down onto the bed frame with a loud clang. </p><p>Bucky clumsily lunged toward the old woman, his hand grasping her swinging arm to stop the iron from connecting with his head. It was the last image she saw- Bucky managing to get the weapon out of the old woman’s hand- before Sheryl closed her eyes and returned to the liminal darkness. </p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <em> “ Sheryl. Sheryl, wake up. ” </em>
</p><p>Her eyes refused to open. After everything, sleep paralysis? A tiny groan issued from her throat, the only thing she could muster as her mind drifted slowly in and out of sleep mode. <em> God, I’m so sick of being asleep </em> <em>.</em> Sheryl finally cracked open her eyes, unable to see much but feeling everything. </p><p>She was cold. Freezing, actually. She had somehow acquired an oversized jacket, her bandaged shoulder only wrapped in the shoulder of the garment.  Warmth swaddled her side, her right shoulder, her hips. She blinked a few times, her eyesight adjusting to the darkness around her. Moonlight broke through the trees above, and in the silvery light she found that her cheek rested against Bucky’s shoulder, his arm draped heavily across her legs as she sat curled in his lap. </p><p>With what little strength she had in her body, she pushed herself away from him, the cold bark of the tree prickling against her hand. They were in the woods, again. <em> Always the woods. </em>Bucky’s head drooped, but he exhaustedly tilted his head up and rested it on the trunk of the tree he sat up against. He reached forward and pulled her to him in an embrace, apparently past the point of formalities. </p><p>“Your jacket,” she whispered, her cold fingers ghosting across his exposed arm. He had been reduced to his uniform undershirt, which hardly protected him against the cold. </p><p>“You need it more than me.” He sounded tired, winded, like he had been running for too long and with little respite. </p><p>“Bullshit, I’m from Maine. I’m used to the cold.”</p><p>“Sheryl, don’t argue with me,” he urged, squeezing her harder. “Not right now.”</p><p>She stayed quiet for a moment, holding onto him, wanting to keep him warm as he must have been colder than her. “What happened?”</p><p>“I should have known better, I should have seen the signs,” he groaned, his forehead resting against the crown of her head. “Gianna was a Hydra spy.”</p><p>“She attacked you,” Sheryl remembered. </p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“What did you do?” Sheryl paused as Bucky withheld any response. “Did you <em> kill </em> her?”</p><p>“No,” Bucky answered quickly, as if he didn’t want Sheryl to even think about that possibility. “No, I just- I knocked her out. Then I took you and I ran. I ran out the back door, since it wasn’t so boarded up. And I didn’t stop until I got here. I don’t even know where <em> here </em>is.”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Sheryl whispered, echoing the same words he had said to her not too long before. Her fingers stroked his shoulder, his neck, his jaw. “We’re safe now. You got us out.”</p><p>“We’re <em> not </em> safe. We won’t be safe until we get back to base,” he insisted, shaking his head, his forehead sliding against her hair. “How could I be so stupid? What old woman from the countryside knows how to cauterize a wound? <em> Ovaltine ?” </em></p><p>“I didn’t realize it either,” Sheryl reasoned. </p><p>“I know, but you’re not-” he stopped short, a sigh escaping his mouth instead.</p><p>“I’m not a soldier,” Sheryl finished for him. “I’m just a journalist who’s become a damsel in distress.”</p><p>“It doesn’t matter,” he said resolutely, lifting his head from hers. “We have to keep moving. There could be Hydra scouts in these woods. Can you walk?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Sheryl answered and pulled away from him. “I think the better question is, can you?” </p><p>“I’m fine.” Contrary to his words, his head fell back against the tree again and his breathing heaved, his chest rising and falling rapidly, a sheen of sweat glinting on his skin. </p><p>“Yeah, you look it.” Sheryl removed her good arm from the sleeve of Bucky’s uniform jacket, exposing herself to the chilling night air. </p><p>He gave her an exasperated look that even she could see in the moonlight. “Are you crazy?”</p><p>“Probably.” She draped the fabric over him, but he fought her, refusing to take the jacket back.</p><p>“I’m not going to be the reason you nearly freeze to death a second time.” He held his arm outside the cover of the fabric, beckoning Sheryl to let him hold her again. </p><p>Sheryl tried not to think too much about it as she slid her arms back around his torso and let him pull the jacket over her damaged shoulder. She worried that, if she did mull it over for too long, she might trick herself into thinking that she liked being close to him, and that would be a bigger mistake. </p><p>Sheryl sighed as she let her head fall against his shoulder. “Why didn’t she just drug you while I was still out? She had a day and a half to do it.” </p><p>“I didn’t exactly eat while you were asleep.”</p><p>“Bucky-”</p><p>“Or sleep.”</p><p>
  <em> “ Bucky .” </em>
</p><p>“What are you, my mother?”</p><p>“No wonder we’re both weak,” Sheryl murmured. “Neither of us have eaten in a day. Why didn’t you eat?”</p><p>“Because I was <em> worried </em> <em>,</em> genius,” Bucky replied, his New York accent suddenly coming out strong. “I was worried that any second someone would come beating on the door. I was worried you might not wake up.” He sighed, his breath coming out in a cloud of condensation that whispered across Sheryl’s face. </p><p>“I’m worried I’m going to die young,” she confessed quietly into his ear. She had no idea what made her say it, but it was true, and she continued, “It sounds glamorous until you face it. It’s terrifying when it’s out of your control.”</p><p>“I know it.” Bucky took in the silence that followed. “I have a feeling I’m never going to see my home again. I’m not going to make it out of this war alive. Not if things keep going the way they are.” </p><p>Sheryl lifted her head from his shoulder and reached for his hand. He gazed at her curiously as she cupped the back of his hand and used her other to smooth her fingers along the lines on his palm. </p><p>“The war won’t be the end of you,” she said casually, peering down at his hand, squinting to see it in the darkness.  She tilted it toward the light of the moon, scrutinizing the shadows in the grooves of his skin. “You’re going to have an accident, a big one. It’s going to affect you for a long time. But you’ll recover from it.”</p><p>“Thanks, that makes me feel a lot better,” Bucky laughed incredulously. “Where are you getting that?”</p><p>She pointed to the line on his palm closest to his thumb. “There’s a break in your life line, and an island in your heart line. Both mean a pretty big trauma in your life. But your head line...” She tried to hide her worry, but Bucky could see the way her lips twitched toward a frown. “Your head line is wavy. You’re going to be confused, a lot, during this time.”</p><p>“You don’t believe in all this fortune teller stuff, do you?” </p><p>She shrugged. “I learned it from my Nana. Granted, she drank most of her meals, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t right.”</p><p>Bucky snorted. “Okay, little miss witch. What does yours say?”</p><p>“Not that I’m a witch, unfortunately. Or, maybe-” she tilted her hand toward the light and said, “Huh. What do you know, a mystic cross. I’m a witch.”</p><p>Bucky gave a triumphant laugh, and sang, “That old black magic has me in its spell, that old black magic that you weave so well-”</p><p>“Stop-”</p><p>“-Those icy fingers up and down my spine, that same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine.” His face stretched into a smile that seemed to hint that, despite the hardships, he was enjoying himself. Or, at least, he enjoyed making Sheryl squirm.</p><p>Sheryl giggled, grateful for the darkness that kept him from seeing the flush creeping onto her cheeks. “Other than that, I guess there’s nothing really interesting in mine. A couple of accidents down the line, perhaps. My life line stops pretty abruptly, that's why I'm worried about it.”</p><p>“Well, palm print or no, nothing’s set in stone.”</p><p>“You’re not convinced?”</p><p>“Not really, no.” Bucky looked into Sheryl’s eyes, something secretive hovering there in his gaze. “We all have our fears. We can either run from them, or we can force them to run from us. It’s a choice we have to make.”</p><p>“That’s a strong philosophy,” Sheryl whispered to him, her breath mingling with his in the cold air. </p><p>He lingered close to her face, eyes darting down to her lips, stuck in a moment’s silence. He hitched a breath, then backed away and looked at the snow on the ground. </p><p>“Yeah, well. I’m not always right.” He cleared his throat, then pointed further into the trees. “I’ve caught my breath, maybe we should get going.”</p><p>Sheryl pulled away from him and lowered her eyes.“Right. Which way?”</p><p>“Any way,” he answered, getting to his feet and draping the jacket back over her shoulders. “As long as it’s away from this town.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Italian Translations:<br/>Bella cara- beautiful darling<br/>La tua ragazza? Puah!- Your girlfriend? Pooh!<br/>Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo- Ugly son of a bitch bastard</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The Wolf</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bucky tells Sheryl about their mission. Sheryl tells Bucky about her past.</p><p>Suicide tw</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sheryl found herself stumbling through the dark woods again, only this time, the evil thing was at her side; and, she was coming to accept, with every second that he walked with his arm protectively around her waist, he wasn’t so evil after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So if you live in Maine, how do you work for a New York magazine?” He had been asking such questions as they walked, trying to keep their minds off of the cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mostly work from home,” she replied, tripping over a tree root. “God </span>
  <span>damn </span>
  <span>it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave God out of it,” Bucky muttered. “I doubt he’s listening anyways.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shot him a quick glance. “Not a Christian, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was, once.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But then the war?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then the war.” Bucky sighed and took her hand to keep her steady as they wobbled over uneven ground. “It’s hard to keep your faith when there’s bullets flying at you constantly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m starting to see that.” She ducked to miss a low hanging tree branch. “Then again, my family was non-practicing as it was. Except for on Christmas. And Easter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You celebrate Easter?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a good excuse to eat your weight in roast beef.” Sheryl swallowed a giggle and picked up her pace now that they were on even ground. The forest seemed to slope upward, making certain areas steeper than others. The incline wasn’t the easiest to progress upon, but the further they ascended meant the further they moved from the village. They fell into silence as they moved along, content to keep their anxieties to themselves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sky began to lighten before Sheryl saw the glow of the fire through the trees. She squeezed Bucky’s hand and gestured to it, excited at the idea of salvation, frightened at the idea of another enemy attack. Bucky wrapped his arm around her and put a finger to his lips, warning her to stay quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two approached the glow among the trees, Bucky inching forward to shield Sheryl from sight. After a moment’s survey into the clearing, Bucky all but threw himself through the trees toward the fire. “Steve!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Buck?” Steve stood from his seat beside the campfire, astonishment and relief flooding his expression. “You’re alive! What the hell happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hydra happened,” Bucky answered curtly. “They shot at us, drugged us, chased us… it’s been a nightmare.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They embraced as Sheryl lingered back. She collapsed against a tree, happy to have found what was left of the howling commandos, but unable to feel too triumphant as her vision blurred once again. Her stomach churned painfully, the effects of nearly two days without food and water wearing on her system. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is Morita here? She’s been shot.” Bucky appeared at her side, taking her frail frame into his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morita emerged from a tent upon hearing his name, holding a half eaten chocolate bar in his hand. “Christ, Barnes, what happened to her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A lot.” Bucky picked Sheryl up to carry her towards Morita’s tent with Steve in tow. When he had laid her gently on the floor, Bucky plucked the chocolate bar from Morita’s hand and shoved it into Sheryl’s. “You need to eat something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sheryl, if you don’t I will force it down your throat, so help me.” Bucky gave her a stern look that he didn’t drop until he watched her take a bite from the candy bar. He turned to Morita. “She’s been shot in the shoulder. We cauterized it, but it’s rudimentary at best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morita used one hand to move Bucky’s uniform jacket to the side to assess the wound, but recoiled almost immediately. “That’s a lot of blood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, no shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to her shirt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t ask.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s been like that for a couple days?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, a day and a half. Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morita swore under his breath as he dug around in a small medical bag in the corner. “She’s lucky if it hasn’t infected.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>What</span>
  <span>?” Sheryl’s panicked voice split through the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve took the opportunity to pipe up, “Do you have an anesthetic for her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sick of being unconscious,” Sheryl argued, her anxiety rising to a fever pitch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jim, please, she’s been through enough,” Bucky insisted, pleading with his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All right, </span>
  <span>jesus</span>
  <span>!” Morita came forward, holding a brown bottle of chloroform and a white rag. He gave Sheryl a placid look. “I’m probably gonna have to give you some stitches, depending on how bad the wound is. You might want to be out for this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl quickly stole a few breaths, her mind racing. She clutched Bucky’s wrist as she stared up at him in fright and asked, “Will you be here the whole time? Will you be here when I wake up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I will,” Bucky told her, his eyes burning into hers in the low lamp light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl gazed at Bucky for a moment, fear and pain encompassing her delicate features. Then she dropped her head back onto the ground and said, “Okay. I trust you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morita gently placed the rag over her nose and mouth. She inhaled the sickly fumes, and had no opportunity to be surprised at the effects before she fell into an unnatural sleep for the third time. </span>
</p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A giant raindrop fell from the bough of the tree and hit her head, soaking her hair, but she ignored it. She needed to think, and the tire swing was good for that. The old rubber was faded and cracked, but the rope was still sturdy and held her weight as she straddled the top of it, where the rope attached to the tire. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Too much longer, and her dress would soak through. A leaf fell and stuck to her soggy arm. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sherry, you’re gonna catch a cold.” There he was, bright as ever. Maybe she hated him a little bit for leaving her with this memory of him. He held an umbrella above his head, the cuffs of his khaki trousers dampening in the wet grass. “Come inside, we’ll have a glass of ovaltine.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The thought made her gag. She loved ovaltine, but- “No, thanks. I’ve had enough of it.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Had enough ovaltine? Well that doesn’t sound right.” Somehow he managed to sound Bostonian, even though he’d hate to have someone tell him that. “What’s got you in such a state?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I got the prints back today,” she told him, her cheekbone resting against the thick rope. “They replaced all my pictures. All of my captions. They said they wouldn’t, but they did.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He clicked his tongue, his hand patting her back gently. “I’m so sorry, Sherry.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“They still put my name on it, too,” she spat, her anger only increasing. “They messed up my page with a spread that looks like it was made by Helen Keller, and then they put my name on it.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Well, they don’t have the brains that God gave a chicken,” he replied, a smile playing on his lips, but a sympathetic stare behind his dark eyes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“They also gave out superlatives today for the whole committee.” The tears were coming now, mingling with the raindrops. “What’s the most throw away superlative someone could give you if they don’t have anything nice to say about you? Take a guess.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He thought for a moment, staring down at the grass. “Most… persistent?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sheryl sobbed, rocking her forehead against the rope. “It’s their backhanded way of calling me pushy.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Sherry, you’re better than them,” he declared sternly, “You’re better than them and they know it. Suzy Caplan and Cathleen Cottem can’t touch what you can do. They can’t see what you can. The only reason they became editors was because of Mrs. Fitzgerald’s favoritism. You’re an artist. You have talent they’ll never have.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It doesn’t do me any good, now.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, but it will.” He rubbed away her tears, even though they were instantly replaced with falling drops. “It will, because you’re going places they could never dream of. You know why?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Why?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Because you’re most persistent.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sheryl snorted and batted his hand away. “You’re just saying that because you have to.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I don’t have to do anything.” He offered her his hand. “I’m saying it because it’s the truth. Don’t give up, sweetheart. Promise me that you won’t.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I promise,” she said, her voice cracking. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A thunderclap boomed closer. He peeked around the edge of his umbrella to see the black sky looming above. “We ought to get inside. It’s getting closer.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“The trees will protect us,” she insisted. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“The trees don’t protect anything, not even themselves. C’mon.” He lifted her off the swing with one arm, like he did when she was little, but her feet hit the ground now that she was bigger, and she had to stand on her own. He held the umbrella over her, exposing himself to the rain, as they walked to the back door. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The moment she had stepped through the screen of the back room, she heard a sickening crack from outside. She turned around, nearly slipping on her wet shoes, to see the branch that held up her tire swing shudder. The gargantuan limb crashed down fifteen feet to the ground, squashing the old rubber tire with a massive thump. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She stood at the screen door, a cry caught in her throat. She felt his hand fall to her shoulder as she stared at the wreckage, something within her escaping with the memories she had of the swing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I guess it’s a good thing I brought you in when I did.” He kissed her head and guided her along into the kitchen, tossing the briefest of glances over his shoulder. “I remember when I put that swing up. I would never have imagined it would rot like that.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl woke with a lump in her throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She felt her hand being squeezed in a vice so strong she feared that it would lose all feeling. She blinked a few times before Bucky’s face came into focus. He shoved a canteen at her. “Drink this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She drained the canteen, suddenly overwhelmed by a dying thirst. The canvas tent let in muffled light from outside. She had been dressed in a clean tan blouse much too big for her- she wondered if she’d ever be able to wear her own clothes again as long as she was in Italy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She finally looked to Bucky’s sickly pale face, where dark rings circled his eyes. She asked, “Did you eat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you sleep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not for a second.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long was I out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I’d say maybe about 12 hours. We got here early this morning.” He had at some point retrieved his uniform jacket, despite its dirty and worn state. “I think you’ll be needing this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out Sheryl’s handheld 35mm camera. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought I lost it,” she gasped as she took it from his hand. In her excitement, she barely noticed his frigid demeanor. “I can’t believe you saved it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I figured you’d never forgive me if I didn’t.” Bucky paused, like he didn’t want to continue on, but he did. “There’s something you ought to know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If it’s about my shoulder, I don’t want to hear it right now.” It was hurting her enough, she wished that she could just take a surgeon's saw and hack it off so she wouldn’t have to feel it anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s not that. I need you to know-” he stopped, closing his eyes in regret, “-I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>you to know, this entire mission has been planned from the start.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” She stared at him in shock. It was impossible. “How?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We knew that Hydra was in the town.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, because of the spy-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, listen.” Bucky’s voice was hard and insistent. He took a quick glance at the tent entrance before continuing, “I’m not supposed to be telling you this. Steve and I have known for a while, because the Colonel told us an old friend of ours was here. Klaus Ziegler.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Klaus Ziegler?” Sheryl tested the name, not understanding where he was going with his story. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s a Hydra scientist."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Hydra again," Sheryl nodded, "Is it too late to say I have no idea what Hydra is?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They're Nazis, that's all you really need to know." Bucky rubbed his hands down his face, exhausted. "Ziegler works closely with Johann Schmidt, but while Schmidt builds weapons, Ziegler works with experimentation. Psych stuff. Mind control.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mind control,” Sheryl repeated in disbelief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We knew we’d find something horrible in town. We knew there would be a massacre, we just didn’t know where.” Bucky sighed, tilting his head forward. “We know he’s there, and we have orders to go in and find him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, what,” Sheryl scoffed, “I’ve been kept in the dark this whole time? This isn’t a recon mission, it’s a hit mission?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Correct.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why wasn’t I told about this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Colonel thought it would reflect poorly on the SSR if you knew we were being ordered to strike. That it would seem like we’re hit men rather than soldiers just protecting civilians.” He squeezed her hand, not taking his eyes off of hers. “I need you to know, because our keeping it from you nearly got you killed. You need to know what you’re going into. It’s not fair for us to be keeping you in the dark, when you’re going to be in the field with us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-” Sheryl stopped, unable to process her thoughts quickly enough to answer him. "And what am I supposed to do? I'm not a soldier."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No, you're not." Bucky let go of her hand and sat back, putting space between them. "I just- I'm telling you this because I can't- I wouldn't forgive myself if I kept it from you and you-" He stopped and closed his eyes, turning his head away. Sheryl thought she saw a blush on his cheeks, but she couldn't be sure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lost for a response, she sat up beside him. Her bandaged shoulder nearly touched his, and her wild hair brushed his cheek. She unclasped the necklace around her neck, and held it out to him wordlessly. </span>
  <span>He gave her a confused look before taking the golden pendant in his hand. The heart, intricately embossed with pink flowers, glinted in his palm. He tentatively wedged his nail between the two halves of the locket and popped it open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man in the photograph inside looked uncannily like Gary Cooper. He smiled brightly at the camera, close to laughing. The weathered paper had wrinkles at the edges, like it had been removed and replaced from the locket dozens of times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Bucky glanced back at Sheryl for explanation, she still looked down at her hands as if she were ashamed of what she had shown him. His eyes flicked rapidly from her to the photo and back, anxiety seeping into his features.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s my father,” she whispered, only so he could hear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reexamined the photograph, then sat back with a small, “oh,” as if he only just recognized the resemblance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He gave me that locket when I was eleven,” she said quietly, her eyes sneaking a nervous glance at her treasure in his hands. “It’s probably the most valuable thing I own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moved to hand it back to her at that, but she stopped him with the tips of her fingers. “When he died, I was sixteen. I was on the yearbook committee and I was having the worst time because nothing I wanted to do was making the cut. And he supported me so much. He was the only one who really did.” She drew in a sharp breath, her face reddening as she fought back tears. “And when he died, I couldn’t handle it. They said it was a boating accident and I didn’t believe that he was dead at first, and when I finally realized he wasn’t coming home I shut down. I stayed in my room for a week and I didn’t eat, I barely drank anything, I just wanted to die.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you didn’t,” Bucky said quietly, more of a statement than a question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” she replied almost sarcastically and sniffled to regain her composure. “So I got tired of it taking too long and swallowed a bottle of his old sleeping pills.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t.” Bucky shook his head, horrified. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl nodded. “I just wanted to be away from the house that had so many memories of him. And my mom kept knocking on my door trying to get me to eat and I just couldn't deal with it</span>
  <span>.” She held her face in her hands for a moment, then roughly wiped away her tears like she was frustrated with them. “So I ran into the woods and I looked for a place to just lie down and be done with it. And I thought maybe they’d find me or maybe not, but I wanted to see him again. I just wanted to talk to him again. So I ran, even though I could barely walk, and I was dizzy and I couldn’t think clearly. And then I heard the wolf.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl could practically see the wheels turning in Bucky’s head. “A wolf? Like me in your dream?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl finally looked him in the eye, a tear falling down her cheek. “It came out of the bushes in front of me and I could tell it was mad. I got so scared because that wasn’t how I wanted it to be, I didn’t want it to be painful. So I ran. I ran as hard as I could but it chased me, and I was afraid that I wasn’t going to make it because I couldn’t keep my balance.” She absent-mindedly rubbed her arm, her fingers feeling the raised scar tissue beneath the sleeve of the cotton blouse. “When I saw my house I was so relieved, I didn’t notice the branch that was right in my way. It took a chunk out of my arm and the wolf almost got me because I fell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky nodded as things fell into place. “How did you get away?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Call it divine providence, if you want. The wolf hit the branch before it reached me. I had enough time to get inside before it got up.” She angrily wiped at her cheeks again and bunched up her blanket in her fist. “I stayed in that back room the whole night. The wolf was out there howling outside the door and banging on it, trying to get in. I just stayed there. I couldn’t move.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you survived.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mom found me unconscious on the floor in the morning. I spent ten days in the hospital, but they couldn’t fix this,” she motioned to her arm. “When I got back, I couldn’t stand the house anymore. I couldn’t stand to be so close to the woods. So my mom used his life insurance money to buy a new house that had just been built.” She closed her eyes as if she were trying to envision it again. “I decided that if I couldn’t join him, I’d try to make him proud. So I became a journalist.” She scoffed at herself and shook her head. “He used to say, ‘Sherry, you’re better than them. You’re an artist.’ Look at me now, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why you don’t like to be called Sherry?” Bucky asked, finally piecing things together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can call me Sherry," Sheryl smirked and rested her head on his shoulder. “But you’re right. You’re always right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky froze, a deadly still about his entire body, as if he was holding his breath. “Not always.” He snapped the locket shut and squeezed it in his palm. “Why are you telling me this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because if I’m going on a suicide mission with you, I need you to know.” She shivered against his shoulder. “I need you to know why I’m scared. Why I’m such a poor excuse of a war correspondent.” She gave a laugh that sounded more like a sob, like the thought was so sad it was funny. “Everything I do is because I don’t want to let him down. But I’m terrified of everything around me. Of the woods. This war. </span>
  <span>You</span>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or, I was.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, a tear falling into her hair. “I was, until I realized you aren’t so dangerous. Not to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky remained quiet for a moment, still as a statue. Sheryl secretly hoped that he would agree with her, or if not, that he would somehow show her that he did. After a moment of contemplation, Bucky moved away and looked into her eyes. His expression spoke of pain and regret, and when he opened his mouth to say something, he faltered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Sheryl. I think you’ve got me wrong. As long as you’re around me, you’re never going to be safe.” He dropped his gaze quickly and took a deep breath. Hesitantly, he placed the locket back into her hand and gently closed her fingers around it, his hand lingering over her closed fist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t believe you,” Sheryl whispered, awestruck that he would think to lie to her so bluntly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to,” he said with a tone of finality, and his expression hardened. “I’ll let Morita know you’re awake.” With that, the conversation was over, and Bucky stole out of the tent as quickly as he could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl sat on the bed, processing what had happened. With shaking hands, she clasped the locket back around her neck, hissing through her teeth as her wound was stretched in an unnatural direction. Her fingers fell to the golden heart and raised it to press against her lips meditatively, wondering if it would be easier if she didn't have a mouth to speak with.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Fille Folle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Howling Commandos set out to rescue their men- and anyone else they can find.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sheryl hated Bellissimo. She came to that conclusion as the quiet gray buildings unassumingly stood before her again, hiding their secrets the way a house cat might hide that it just ate a sparrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The men had argued about whether or not she should even come on this mission. Sheryl couldn’t decide if she should be flattered or annoyed, but she settled on something in between. Of course she had to come, it was part of her job description. At the same time, doesn’t a wounded soldier take a leave?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl nearly laughed at herself. As if she were anything close to a soldier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the scene had been endearing, for the most part. Steve had included her in a brief battle strategy circle the remaining howling commandos formed: Bucky, Morita, Gabe, and Dernier all sat in a ring around the campfire early in the morning, before the sun had even risen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve paced back and forth, his hand rubbing his jaw. Sheryl imagined it was never easy building up for a combat mission, but he looked more stoic than he did worried. He’d done this before, and he would do it again in a heartbeat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Steve, we don’t even know where they’re hiding,” Bucky said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not the church?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The church was too small. They couldn’t be hiding everyone in there, maybe one or two scouts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Les rats étaient au-dessus du sol,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Dernier said so quickly that it only sounded like babbling to Sheryl. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ils pourraient être dans les égouts.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He says they could be in the sewers, since the rats were above ground.” Gabe shrugged. “I’m sure it’s possible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve nodded, mulling over the idea. “So we look there first. We go at night so they don’t see us coming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We rescue Dugan and Falsworth,” Bucky added. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And we finish what we came here to do.” Steve’s eyes flicked to Sheryl for a second, so quick that, had she not been expecting it, she wouldn’t have noticed. “We won’t be splitting up this time. We have to have each other’s backs, all six of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morita sat up at that. “Did you just say the </span>
  <em>
    <span>six </span>
  </em>
  <span>of us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Corporal James Morita had the accent of a golden boy from the west coast, but a steely reserve that said he was no one to be messed with. Sheryl took note of it as she watched him stand and point a finger in her direction. “She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>wounded</span>
  </em>
  <span> and she’s no fighting giant. She can’t come with us on a </span>
  <em>
    <span>combat mission</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s here, same as us,” Steve replied, facing Morita sternly. “We need all the numbers we can get.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She can do what she wants,” Bucky said in a conclusive tone. He dared to shoot her a glance, but upon seeing the expression on her face he looked away. “Let her help if she wants to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The five men looked to her for an answer. Sheryl stared into the fire, as if it would tell her what to say. Finally, she spoke, “I came here to do my job, and that means following you boys wherever you go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morita threw up his hands in exasperation; she supposed it was the well-meaning doctor routine that had him so vexed. Steve nodded and said, “All right. So it’s settled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That it was. They hid in the trees, close to the town line as they had before, this time under the cover of night. All was still and quiet, giving off a false sense of serenity. The stars were brighter and more plentiful than she had noticed before; then again, she didn’t spend much time outdoors at night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She clutched her camera, despite not being able to capture anything in the dark. Part of her knew she only brought it to remind her of why she was really there; not to fight, but to document everything. She wasn’t sure which was more admirable. They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but wars aren’t won by journalism. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Bucky’s voice swept her away from her thoughts. She turned to see him, vaguely, in the dark. He seemed no more than a shadow, but one she could easily recognize now, by the way he wouldn’t look at her straight on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She breathed a sigh that she wished could express all of her emotions for her. “I guess I knew this would happen,” she answered him, shoving the camera into her pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have something for you.” Bucky reached into his own pocket and pulled out two items the size of baseballs. When he placed them in her reluctantly outstretched hands, she recognized their unusual weight and texture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no,” Sheryl shoved the hand grenades back at him. “No, I can’t take these.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a good arm, I’ve seen it. You played ball at one point, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl hesitated. “I used to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not much different,” Bucky explained. “Just this time, pull the pin out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t,” she argued. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can, or you’ll die.” Bucky stopped, still refusing to take back the grenades. “You have to fight. It’s what we’re here to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to, ‘she can do what she wants?’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For christ’s sake, at least fight for </span>
  <em>
    <span>yourself</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl defiantly shook her head. “Sergeant Barnes, I’m doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>job. I’m here to take pictures and to do the bare minimum, because the way I see it, I’m not even required to do the bare minimum. I am a civilian. I’m not a soldier, so don’t treat me like one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, obviously not.” Bucky’s head tilted up toward the sky, as if he were looking for some divine answer for the mystery of women. “I’m not always going to be there to save you, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you were only a danger to me,” Sheryl snapped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky stayed quiet for a moment, and Sheryl almost feared that she had been too harsh. Then he turned fully towards her and said, “When I was drafted, I told Steve I enlisted because he was so damn excited to go and get himself killed, and I didn’t want to disappoint him because I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>chosen</span>
  </em>
  <span> over him. I guess I was proud that I could be a hero.” His hands nervously twitched toward his pockets. “Up until a couple months ago, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl couldn’t imagine what he was driving at. “And?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And suddenly death seems so real, and so close.” He leaned closer to her, as though he were desperately seeking out her eyes in the darkness. “Do you understand? Out here, I can’t be too close with anyone. There are too many people who rely on me. I don’t want more to be hurt when I’m gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a lonely way to live.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the only way to live.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl clenched her teeth. “You sound a lot like a man who’s trying to convince himself of something he knows isn’t true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky gave a short, unconvincing chuckle, and stepped back from her. “Pull the pin and throw the grenade, Sherry. It’s not that hard.” He turned away and left her in the darkness before she had a chance to respond. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The grenades were too heavy in her hands, as if they didn’t want to be held by her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, they’d rather be thrown. </span>
  </em>
  <span>She quickly tucked each of them into the pockets of her trousers, unable to think of causing such destruction. She turned back toward Bellissimo, anger boiling beneath her skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gray village slept in the crisp night. It was time to enter the war zone. </span>
</p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <span>She imagined chalk white flowers in the inky darkness. It was the only way to ignore the foul smell permeating the air in the catacomb-like hollow of the sewers, ferociously churning her stomach. </span>
  <em>
    <span>War. How it reeks. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d never been in a sewer before; she hadn’t felt the need to go exploring in the muck and graywater when there were infinitely better places to find adventure. She never thought the tunnels would be so cavernous, or that there would be a stone walkway on either side of the narrow river of waste, conveniently giving them room to stroll along the waterline. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing like an old Roman sewer,” Gabe muttered behind her, as though he had read her thoughts. “You don’t wanna be down here when it floods, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not going to, is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I doubt it. You need rain for that.” Small lights attached to the men’s guns cast thin streaks of light across the surroundings. The dingey, stinking tunnels made the blood-soaked town above them seem preferable. Melting snow trickled through grates high above their heads, dripping down the masonry stone walls. The chill in the air was murky and wet, filling Sheryl with the fear that she might develop a bronchial infection before the night was out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morita and Dernier strolled along in front of them, and even further, Steve and Bucky forged ahead, talking in low tones that sounded eerily like prayers in a cathedral as they bounced off the domed ceiling. A ringing in Sheryl’s ears accompanied the echoes, turning the prayers into hymns. Perhaps she’d attend mass when she got back to the States. If she managed to survive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stopped in her tracks as her heart lurched. Gabe bumped into her back, then steadied himself against her shoulder to avoid losing his balance and falling into the graywater beside them. “Whoa! You all right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you keep your nerve in battle?” She asked him tightly, her hands clutching at the locket around her neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly? I didn’t, for the longest time.” He nudged her back, gently urging her to follow the rest of the men. “After a while, you get used to it. You let your instincts do the work for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if I have no fighting instincts?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then your instinct is to run. And there are worse things you could do than that.” He gave her a reassuring smile that loosened her resolve just enough to let her take a step forward. There were worse things she could do than run. He said it himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ahead, Steve and Bucky disappeared around the corner of a curve in the tunnel. The ringing in Sheryl’s ears climbed toward an uncomfortable crescendo, setting her teeth on edge.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>I have to get out of here. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Around the corner, the two stone walkways widened into enormous platforms on either side of what amounted to a gutter. Three enormous storm grates filtered moonlight into the cavernous room, illuminating what looked like four upright jet engines, each lined with small, glowing blue lights at their bases. They bathed the cavern in a glow reminiscent of an aquarium, causing the howling commandos' shadows to take a distorted, gargantuan appearance across the stone walls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The unbearable ringing in Sheryl’s ears forced her to clap her hands over them. “Don’t any of you hear that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hear what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That ringing!” She squeezed her eyes shut, an ache forming in her forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the hell are those things?” Gabe asked, surveying the four metal contraptions in their path.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They look like transmitters,” Morita stated, gazing up at the closest one in awe. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The design is unparalleled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve shook his head. “Wait, so you mean that thing is a radio?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My first guess would be yes.” Morita reached out to touch an instrument panel on the side of the transmitter closest to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl doubled over, her head screaming. She pulled her hands away from her ears, finding them bloody. The strain became too much and she turned, frantically trying to retreat back the way they had come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gabe caught her as she tried to run. “We can’t go back, sugar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have to go, this isn’t right.” Her breathing came in short bursts as she tried her hardest to break away from his hold. “Something isn’t right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know it isn’t right,” he told her calmly. “Nothing ever is-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl kicked and threw her elbow into Gabe’s ribcage, earning a grunt of discomfort in return, but Gabe’s hold on her was strong. She heard the other men bickering as they tried to assist him, but she desperately clawed at them, trying to push their prying arms away so that she could get out and get back to relative safety.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sheryl, you need to calm down!” Bucky’s voice cut through the air, but was unable to reach her over the sound of her frantic yelling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have to go! I can’t be here, I have to go back!” She screamed and kicked, scratching at Gabe’s face, pushing at Dernier’s arms and kicking back at Bucky’s legs. “Let me go! I have to leave!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blue light on the wall before her dimmed. With two blinks and a gasp of air, Sheryl’s mind went still. The ringing in her ears ceased. She collapsed backward, taking down Dernier and Bucky in the process.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ, the little thing can scratch.” Gabe wiped a spot of blood off of his face where her nails had dug in deep. “What the hell happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It might have been something to do with this,” Morita said from a distance. He motioned to the instrument panel, a bewildered look on his face. “I just shut it off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fille folle</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” It sounded like a curse as Dernier stood up, brushing himself off. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Je ne suis pas formé pour ça!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky sat up with Sheryl clutched to his chest. He wiped blood from the side of her face and asked, “Are you okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” she answered, struggling to hear him. A wave of vertigo swarmed her senses before she drifted back to reality. “I think so. Are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky laughed. “You haven’t hurt me yet, sweetheart. Come on.” He hoisted her up, making sure she was steady on her feet before letting her go. “Okay, anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyone in the area would have heard her screams,” Morita said blandly, tapping the side of the transmitter with his knuckle. “I guess we should move on, unless she still feels the need to leave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s okay,” Bucky snapped, eyeing Morita pointedly. “And that’s what matters, right </span>
  <em>
    <span>doc</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, Barnes.” Morita hitched up his gun and advanced onward, leaving the rest of the men behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you oughta stay near me, now,” Bucky said to Sheryl, nudging her cheekbone with the knuckle of his finger. “Gabe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s all yours.” Gabe patted Dernier consolingly on the shoulder and marched along after Morita and Steve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl lingered back, wringing her hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky insisted, urging her forward. “It wouldn’t be the first time one of us lost their cool on the job.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl reached for her camera, stuck on the feeling of dread deep in her gut. As she snapped a picture of the glowing blue transmitters, she asked him in a hushed tone, “What does this Klaus guy look like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one knows,” Bucky answered, keeping his eyes on the men ahead of them. His face read of something ferocious that left Sheryl feeling wary. “We know about him because traces of him turn up everywhere Hydra is. But it seems like no one has seen him. No one has any picture of him on file.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So how do you know who you’re looking for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t,” he stated frankly. “But a Nazi is a Nazi. It’s always them or us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The radio transmitters disappeared behind them as they were closed in by a narrow tunnel once again. Sheryl quickly decided not to ask any more questions about the mission; the more she did, the more the answers became unsettling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gunfire ripped through the air, jarring her from her moment of contemplation. Bucky pushed Sheryl against the stone wall and lifted his gun as a stream of men came pouring around the corner at the tunnel’s end, bullets cracking bright flashes of light in the darkness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl fell on all fours and crawled beside the damp wall, her eyes wide open in the dark as she clawed blindly at the rough hewn stone. As the enemy men advanced further toward the Howling Commandos, Sheryl inched along the wall, hoping to pass them up without being noticed. The sharp blasts reverberated off the stone walls and jolted deep into Sheryl’s bones.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rancid water splashed her knees as the men shuffled past, overlooking her in favor of the immediate threat of the Howling Commandos. With a brief glance over her shoulder, Sheryl discovered that Falsworth had been right about Gabe’s volatility; he wielded the largest gun of the bunch, and mowed down oncoming men quicker than they could keep up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl clumsily threw herself around the corner of the tunnel, taking a short refuge from the shower of bullets. Not a moment later, the gunfire stopped, filling the air with a pregnant silence. Footsteps echoed off the walls, splashing in the filthy water, and the Howling Commandos came running around the corner, Steve at the forefront. As Sheryl stood from her crouched position, Bucky grabbed her wrist as he passed her and pulled her into a stumbling run at his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A siren howled somewhere deep in the tunnels. Sheryl’s heart lurched as she ran with the men through the twisting labyrinth, the sirens and shouts of men growing louder with every step. Around one last corner, Steve blocked a rain of bullets with his shield and stumbled backward as another group of Hydra men advanced toward them. Sheryl repeated her only defense: ducking into the shadows, edging her way along the wall, face turned away from the fire, hoping the men wouldn’t notice her presence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Howling Commandos worked fast. It was the only thing she could find to be thankful for in the moment, when Bucky once again yanked her up and pressed her forward into another cavernous room punctuating the tunnel system. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dear Christ,” Bucky whispered as he squeezed Sheryl’s arm, gazing in awe around the enormous chamber.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cages, tall and slender, ran the entire expanse of the room. Inside them, malnourished and filthy, was what remained of the population of Bellissimo, all prisoners of war.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>French Translations:<br/>Les rats étaient au-dessus du sol- The rats were above ground<br/>Ils pourraient être dans les égouts- They could be in the sewers<br/>Fille folle- Crazy girl<br/>Je ne suis pas formé pour ça!- I didn't sign up for this!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The Chopping Block</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Howling Commandos go up against the enemy.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Took you long enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Timothy Dugan stood in a nearby cage, head resting against the bars as he stared out at them with shocking blue eyes. His face was bloody and he seemed to have had his normal joviality beaten out of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You just can’t seem to stay out of these things, can you?” Steve asked in a frugal attempt to lighten the mood. “Where’s Falsworth?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dunno,” Dugan answered listlessly. “Nazi bastards took him a while ago. They went that way,” he pointed across the chamber at the opposite entrance from the way they’d come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They took him to the Chopping Block,” said a woman in another cage. On her knees, she clutched at the bars until her knuckles turned white. She peered at them through stringy blonde hair. “That is what they call it. They’re doing experiments on him. His mind-” she cut off, sobbing uncontrollably. <em>“</em></span>
  <em>
    <span>Mio Dio</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>,</em> you have to help us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve used the edge of his shield to break the lock on Dugan’s cage. “You think you can fight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know I can.” Dugan pointed to Sheryl, a look of worry crossing his face. “You’ll want to get her out of here. She isn’t safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s armed,” Bucky told him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t matter.” Dugan motioned to the rest of the cages and asked, “What do you see here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a moment’s silence as the Howling Commandos once again surveyed the POW cages. In each one, the faces of numerous battered and frail women stared pleadingly back at them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re keeping the women. God knows what they’re doing with the men.” Dugan shook his head insistently. “You need to get her out-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More gunfire cut Dugan short. The eruption caused all the women in the room to begin screaming. Sheryl ran to duck behind the nearest cage, the women inside all swarming to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need to help us escape,” the same blonde woman begged over the gunfire. “The keys. They are with the scientist, the one with black hair. He’ll be at the Chopping Block.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where they experiment on people?” Sheryl shook her head. “I can’t go there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, you’re our only chance.” The woman’s brown eyes were desperate, screaming for mercy. “The men are good at fighting, but they cannot help us at the same time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl stared at her for a moment, taking in her words. The gunfire made her cringe and clutch the bars just as the other woman did. With one last look into the woman’s eyes, Sheryl slipped around the back of the cage and edged her way along the wall, toward the place she had called the Chopping Block.</span>
</p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl had done stupider things. She tried to convince herself of that as she ran through the sewer tunnels, moving further and further from the sound of gunfire as she went. It didn’t do much to reduce her sense of dread, but at least it toned down the din in her ears so she could hear herself think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The women had all been young, just like her. The fear in their eyes was enough to stir Sheryl’s own. She wouldn’t be able to forgive herself if she didn’t help them. If she didn’t at least try.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tunnel once again emptied into a large chamber. Sheryl heard voices, getting louder and louder, and then screaming. She clutched her hands to her chest, her pulse quickening. Coming to the end of the tunnel, she peered around the edge of the opening, trying her best not to be seen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was met with a scene that gave her the feeling that she had wandered onto the set of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Frankenstein</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Her hand reached for her camera, her instinct to capture the scene stronger than her own reflexes. Four men in lab coats scurried around an array of instrument panels hooked up to two of the transmitters they had seen in the previous chamber. In the center of it all, a man sat strapped to a chair, wires stuck to his head from every angle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of the men in lab coats had black hair, from what she could tell. But, as she scrutinized the scene with her shutter whirring, she saw another man step toward the man in the chair from where he had been hidden behind one of the transmitters. He didn’t look like any doctor she had ever seen- he wore a three piece suit, looking more like he should have been giving a lecture at a college than standing in a makeshift laboratory in a sewer. He had black hair. A ring of keys hung from his belt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl swallowed her fear and slipped into the chamber, ducking low to stay hidden behind the nearest instrument panels to her. A few of the men were babbling on in German, but nothing sounded too alarming yet. She peeked around the corner of the instrument panel to get a closer look at the scientist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spoke to the man strapped to the chair in hushed tones. His hands on his hips, he looked serene, snake-like, and perhaps a bit hypnotic. His high cheekbones and slender face, framed by wire-rimmed glasses, oozed an ominous charisma the likes of which Sheryl had never seen before. He bent down to meet eye level with the man in the chair. As Sheryl reeled the camera film, she glanced at the man in the chair, and froze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falsworth had seen better days. He was covered in a thin layer of sweat, his hair matted, his face bruised and swollen. But it was him, Sheryl recognized, by his mustache and the rigid set of his jaw. At that moment, Sheryl knew she had no choice. She couldn’t leave him behind again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no way of doing it stealthily. Falsworth was the only victim in the room, and if the men weren’t concerned by the sound of gunfire and sirens echoing from the tunnels, then they weren’t preparing to leave without a fight. Sheryl shakily pulled a hand grenade from her pocket, the weapon still feeling alien as it sat in her hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pull the pin and throw the grenade, Sherry. It’s not that hard.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl pulled the pin before she could talk herself out of it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How long does it take for this thing to go off? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Biting back a scream, she threw it as hard as she could, hearing it fall with a splash into the sewer gutter.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“</span>
    <span>Was war das?</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>”</em> The German doctors turned to look at the gutter. The scientist in the suit seemed to recognize the item quicker than them, and jumped behind the nearest transmitter before the grenade went off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The explosion blasted Sheryl’s instrument panel forward, knocking her against the wall. The chamber trembled, the entire room reverberating with the shock. One of the drain grates came free and fell to the chamber floor, catching one of the doctors beneath its heavy weight. The other three had been too close to the blast to be any better off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both transmitters rocked and toppled over, crushing instrument panels and wires in their wake. The chair that Falsworth had been strapped to was thrown backward against the stone wall, breaking into pieces upon impact. Falsworth lay there on the debris, crumpled like the rest of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl staggered up, slightly deaf and disoriented. She stumbled forward, tripping over the instrument panel, her head spinning. She moved toward Falsworth, praying that he was still alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pair of hands roughly planted themselves on her shoulders and jerked her across an instrument panel. She gasped for air as her back hit the metal, and opened her eyes to find the scientist standing over her. His silver eyes flashed murderously as his hands closed around her throat, squeezing the air from her wind-pipe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl clawed at his face, fighting to get air into her lungs. With one hard swipe, her sharp nails dug in and left a trail of blood where they gashed his porcelain skin. He shouted and pulled back, his hand flying to his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She kicked him in the groin and, with one heavy push, she lunged off of the instrument panel and collapsed onto him with her full weight, knocking him backward. He groaned as his head hit the stone floor. Sheryl pulled at the ring of keys on his belt loop, tearing at the fabric until it came loose in her hand. She rolled off of him and jumped up, rushing to crawl over a toppled transmitter to get back to the tunnel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scientist’s hand clamped around her ankle and roughly pulled her back down. Sheryl yelped as her knee hit the stone floor, and she fell backwards, clutching the keys to her chest. The scientist took her moment of weakness to climb on top of her, pinning her to the floor while his hands found her throat once again. She squirmed beneath him, her legs thrashing, trying to break free. Her lungs burned and her vision began to swim as she struggled for breath, her hands pulling at the scientist’s wrists in futility. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sickening </span>
  <em>
    <span>clang</span>
  </em>
  <span> sounded through the air, and the scientist abruptly toppled forward, his full weight pressing down on Sheryl as he went limp. Sheryl gasped and pushed him off of her, her vision coming back into focus. She blinked a few times before she could register the image of Falsworth standing over her, holding a large piece of his broken chair in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sheryl, what on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Earth </span>
  </em>
  <span>are you doing?” Falsworth’s endearing British poise had not been lost in all the torture and mayhem. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl sat up, coughing. “Trying to save you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falsworth didn’t answer. He picked up a large shard of metal and raised it high above the scientist’s body.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop!” Sheryl grabbed his arm, preventing him from driving it into the scientist’s chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That man is a murderer,” he stated. “I cannot let him live.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl recognized the look in his eyes; it was the same look that Bucky had when he spoke to her about Klaus Ziegler. She let go of his arm, knowing that the success of the entire mission hinged on whether Ziegler walked away or not. Falsworth nodded at her appreciatively, and raised his arm again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another explosion rocked the cavern, this time coming from the tunnels, blasting shards of stone and a cloud of dust into the cavern. Falsworth lost his balance and fell on top of Sheryl, landing with an uncomfortable grunt. A disconcerting cracking sound echoed through the room. Sheryl looked up at the ceiling to find dust falling from the storm grate high above them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Move,” she insisted, pushing at Falsworth’s shoulders. “Move </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
    <span>!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl and Falsworth scrambled out of the way as the drain grate came tumbling down, crushing the instrument panels and transmitter with the force of its momentum. It landed cockeyed on top of the various machinery, trapping the unconscious scientist under its weight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> A moment later, dozens of Hydra guards piled into the chamber, shooting backwards at the tunnel they came in from. As the bullets flew, Falsworth took Sheryl’s face in his hands, urging her to look him in the eye. “Go. Free everyone else, I’ll stay behind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl’s hands flew to cover his own. “I’m not leaving without you again,” Sheryl shouted over the roar of ammunition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go, Sheryl!” He pushed her aside and leapt over capsized machinery, heading to where the rest of the Howling Commandos were emerging from the tunnel, covered in dust, pushing the Hydra men back with full force. Sheryl watched as he rejoined his team, grabbed a spare gun from Dernier, and began shooting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl ran for the tunnel, ducking behind instrument panels to avoid being hit. As she reached the tunnel, she turned to take one last shot of Captain America and his Howling Commandos, together as one, pushing the enemy back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the corner of her eye, she saw movement in the wreckage where she had just stood. There, she saw the scientist in the three piece suit stand and dust himself off, as if he weren’t in the middle of a war zone, but simply inconvenienced on an average day. He turned, assessed the battle that was going on before him, and seemingly decided it was not worth his time. He made eye contact with Sheryl, as she stood in the tunnel opening, feeling the rush of adrenaline pulse through her veins as his ice gray eyes picked apart her very being. Her finger pressed down on the button of her camera. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Click</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Klaus Ziegler turned and strolled through the wreckage, through the firefight without a scratch, and into the tunnel on the opposite end of the chamber, disappearing from sight.</span>
</p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl stood on the ridge overlooking Bellissimo, this time accompanied by nearly fifty women, shivering and weak in the frigid night air. The gunfire resounded from the storm grates on the streets, crackling through the night like distant fireworks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At her shoulder, the blonde woman, Emilia, clutched her arms to her chest. “Will they make it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl nodded, knowing fully well that they would. She didn’t doubt it for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You saved us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl pursed her lips. The women had been left in the cages. Just as she had suspected, Steve hadn’t been able to free all of them once the bullets started flying. As she emerged from the tunnel, the din of the women’s cheers could have rivaled the gunfire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl quickly unlocked every cage. She wasn’t sure if there were any Hydra men left to stop them, but she feared they had little time to lose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone grab a mate!” Sheryl felt as though she were a schoolteacher escorting a group of students to a park. “We can’t lose anyone else!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The women grabbed at each other, gravitating toward friends and family. Altogether, the women stood in pairs before her, and they each followed her instructions as she led them out of the sewers, nearly running all the way. She had run, as her instinct told her to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are a hero,” Emilia added.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Am I? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Sheryl remained still, staring out at the dark village. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s out there, somewhere. He’s out there because I let him go. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A snowflake drifted through the air, landing on Sheryl’s sleeve. Emilia grabbed her hand, maybe for warmth, maybe because she had been the only one who didn’t have a partner when they had left the sewers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is my home.” Emilia’s voice wavered. “They took it from me. I have nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have me,” Sheryl told her. And she meant it. It was the only thing she could think to say, after everything that had happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The night air fell silent, the gunfire ceased. They had made it. She had made it.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Klaus Ziegler is based, in physical description, on Cillian Murphy. I think I've been watching too much Peaky Blinders.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. The Picture</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sheryl discovers that many things are working in her favor</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, these should have been preliminary interviews. Better late than never though, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve’s large frame dwarfed the chair he sat in. He folded his hands in his lap, his face contorted in an uncomfortable smile. “Sheryl, you’ve known me for almost three weeks. Why do we have to do this, again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I never actually got a legitimate interview out of any of you,” Sheryl answered, settling herself across the card table from him. Her brassy hair, pinned back from her face in victory rolls, glinted in the light of the lantern on the table as she shuffled through a folder of papers. “Dugan didn’t mind it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think Dugan enjoys anything that involves a dame in a skirt.” Steve tried to backtrack when he saw the glare Sheryl shot at him, but stopped when she held up her hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you want to join the army?” Apparently there was no getting out of it, Steve would just have to give her a real interview this time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rested his chin on his hand, an unhappy sigh escaping his lips. “I want to stop what the Nazis are doing. I don’t like bullies, I never have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that’s why you were chosen to become America’s super soldier?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess so.” He regarded Sheryl closely; she hunched over her paper scribbling down his answers, her face wound up tightly like she was trying to think through pain, squinting down at her notes through a pair of round wire-rimmed glasses. She had finally been able to wear her own clothes for a change, even if it was simply her army issued war correspondent’s uniform. She had painted her lips and nails red. She had her lovely peaches and cream complexion back. Still, something wasn’t right. “How are you, Sheryl? Really?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl faltered, her dark eyes darting up to look at him over the rims of her glasses. “I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it because of Bucky?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why should everything be because of Bucky?” Sheryl snapped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve opened his mouth, a knowing smile spreading across his face. He hid it against his palm. Sheryl noticed it despite his effort, and looked away sourly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had returned to the base a week prior. Colonel Phillips forced Sheryl to spend most of the week in a medical tent, waiting while her bullet wound somewhat healed. She thanked her lucky stars that she had received a bed next to Emilia, who had to be given a full gamut of tests, like the rest of the women from Bellissimo, to ensure her health. It gave Sheryl someone to focus on other than herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each of the Howling Commandos had visited her, bearing gifts: Steve had been the first with a box of chocolates, Dugan brought an enormous bouquet of flowers, Gabe and Dernier brought her extra field rations that they had scammed from God knows where, Morita came to chastise the nurses on their failure to dress her wound properly, and Falsworth had arrived close to nightfall, a bag of clean clothes displayed forth in his hands after having roped one of the WASPs into fetching Sheryl’s clothes from her tent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky was nowhere to be found. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl held back her anger, pushing it against her teeth with her tongue. She wasn’t entitled to his company, and yet, she dared to hope that he would at least check on how she was doing. He didn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve’s question told her what she needed to know. Perhaps he had tried to persuade Bucky into visiting her in the medical bay. Perhaps he had noticed something else was off. Whatever the case, Steve knew that Bucky hadn’t been to see her, and he knew that she was mad about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Sheryl,” Steve said, his compassion seeping through his bashful gaze. “I know you’ve been through a lot-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does it matter?” Sheryl was quickly running out of patience, something she didn’t seem to have in abundance since they had returned from Bellissimo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It matters because you’re my friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl sat back in her seat, her pen falling with a thud against her paper. She had hardly expected that. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m Captain America’s friend</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The notion was mind boggling, impossible to have imagined upon receiving the assignment from Hugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite this revelation, Sheryl’s forefinger knuckle went to her chin, ghosting below her bottom lip the way it did when she was in a foul mood. “That’s sweet, Steve, really,” she told him, “but we’re not here to talk about me right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve sighed, betraying his frustration. “Ask away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl looked back at her notes, as if she had forgotten the next question. “Tell me about your childhood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve hesitated, throwing a cautionary glance her way. “Well, I grew up in Brooklyn. Dad died in the war when I was nine- the </span>
  <em>
    <span>great </span>
  </em>
  <span>war, you know. ‘The War to End All Wars,’ they said.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl took note of the sarcastic bite to Steve’s words. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mother’s name was Sarah. She died when I was eighteen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl was beginning to feel like she shouldn’t have asked about his childhood at all. “You don’t have to tell me this, I’m sorry-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s- It’s all right. Bucky took care of me, for a while. Until I got back on my feet.” Steve paused, like something was weighing on his conscience. “Bucky, you know, he’s always taken care of everybody. When we were just kids, Bucky pretty much was raising his sister on his own. He spent a lot of time in Brooklyn since he had family there who were around, most of the time. That’s where I met him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You seem to really want to talk about Bucky.” When Steve shrugged, she reached up and pulled her glasses from her face. “Okay, Steve. What do you want me to know about him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He has this need to take care of everybody. He’s selfless to the point of self destruction. And he cares about you, a lot. More than I think you realize.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, he makes it very clear.” Sheryl’s flat voice gave Steve little encouragement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sheryl, you don’t understand,” Steve went on relentlessly, “Bucky has always supported everyone around him. When I freed him from that Hydra base a month ago, something changed. He’s been pushing people away ever since.” Steve stopped, searching her face for an answer that wasn't there. “Don’t let him push you away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl took in his words, repeating them in her mind like a skipping record. Her pen hit her paper, </span>
  <em>
    <span>tap tap tap</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as she mulled them over along with everything else she knew of Bucky Barnes. She rubbed her lips together and then, with one quick swoop of her hand, she closed the folder in front of her. Straightening her brown uniform skirt as she stood up, she said to Steve, “I think I have everything I need, Captain. Thank you for your time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have to do another one of these, do we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl didn’t make an attempt to hide the smile that crept across her face, the only thing that told Steve she wasn’t mad at him. “If we do, I’ll just make something up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank God.”</span>
</p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <span>Women must not have come around the men’s quarters quite often. The curious soldiers all but jumped out of their tents to watch Sheryl walk past, clutching her folder to her chest, too busy with her thoughts to care where their pointed stares went. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The festive notes of holiday music drifted out of various tents. How could she have forgotten that Christmas was just a few days away? The events of the last few weeks had stolen Sheryl’s sense of time, along with her sense of holiday cheer. Most of the men congregating in their tents were probably writing letters to, or receiving letters from, their families back home. The thought struck a nerve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl approached Bucky’s tent, feeling the nervous swell of anxiety grow within her chest. Realistically, he wouldn’t say no to an interview. It was her job, and at the very least Colonel Phillips would order him to comply with whatever Sheryl needed to do, should he feel like refusing to cooperate. Sheryl hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary. Things were awkward enough between them as it was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crooning sound of Bing Crosby’s voice drifted from a radio speaker within the tent. Something about it pulled at Sheryl’s heart; back home, her mother would be listening to the same songs, decorating the tree, warming her feet by the radiator beside the front room window and drinking hot chocolate, all while wondering how Sheryl was doing overseas. The backyard would be blanketed in white snow, the neighborhood kids would be having their snowball fights on the block. Sheryl could have been there, could have been enjoying the season’s merry making with her mother- but she wasn’t. She was on a military base in the middle of </span>
  <em>
    <span>no-place-at-all</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Italy, while the war seemed to be tightening its ever-present grip like a vice around her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you be writing a letter to your family, then?” Falsworth’s velvety voice was unmistakable. His words and the fact that it came from Bucky’s tent sent a shockwave through Sheryl’s system. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seemed the day just kept throwing curveballs at her. It wasn’t impossible to think that Bucky and Falsworth would spend their downtime together. They were on the same task force and, as Sheryl had learned from the start, all the men at least respected one another. However, Bucky’s hostility toward Falsworth from the time Sheryl had met him led her to believe that Bucky wouldn’t want to be around Falsworth more than necessary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t really thought about it.” Bucky sounded apathetic, almost depressed. Sheryl retreated around the side of the tent, hiding herself between the canvas and the trunk of an evergreen tree. The last thing she needed was one of the onlooking soldiers to tell Bucky that she had been loitering outside his tent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t think they’d like to hear from you?” Falsworth had that same gentle, caring tone that he used whenever he spoke to Sheryl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe not. I can’t say that they miss me much.” Bucky’s speech was slow and painstaking, like it took him a lot of effort not to muddle the words. He had been drinking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there a story in there somewhere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Depends on what you consider a story.” There was a sound of liquid being poured, and the clinking of glasses. “My dad bought this business in oil in ‘23. We got this beautiful mansion in King’s Point and a ton of money, but I guess it meant we couldn’t be a family anymore. The parties on the block were more important.” A heavy silence fell between the two. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my folks. But they weren’t very good at being parents, and I don’t think they’d start now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falsworth gave him a quiet hum of acknowledgement. “But you have a sister, right? Wouldn’t she like to hear from you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rebecca would rather have me come home than just send a card. I don’t know what goes on with her these days, she probably hasn’t forgiven me for being drafted. As if it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> fault, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You must have </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Barnes. It’s Christmas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” Bucky trailed off, a whisper into a glass of alcohol. “I thought I did. Maybe I was wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You never know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you love her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sheryl.” Bucky’s voice was thick and full of emotion. “Do you love her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falsworth was appalled, as was Sheryl. “Whatever gave you that impression?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw you holding her face during the fight.” Sheryl knocked her head back against the trunk of the evergreen tree, rolling her eyes so hard it was nearly painful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Falsworth stayed quiet for almost too long. “If I loved her, Barnes, you’d know. You wouldn’t have to ask.” Another pause. “I love my wife. I have no reason to look anywhere else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky sighed audibly. “Guess I shouldn’t have been such an ass then, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you care for her, you should tell her.” Falsworth stopped, presumably to drink whatever they were sharing. “What’s stopping you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The question hung heavily in the air, condensing over Sheryl’s head. Her mind raced, a hard lump lodging itself deep within her throat and threatening to burst forth if she didn’t swallow it down. She leaned with full force against the evergreen tree, pristine military uniform be damned, holding her breath, anticipating Bucky’s answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky cleared his throat. “I can’t do that to her, Monty. I can’t promise her the world while it’s burning.” The dull sound of glass hitting wood punctuated his words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think she wants the world, Barnes,” Falsworth said brusquely. “She just wants you. Isn’t it unfair to deny her that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe.” The answer was short and curt, borderline irritated. Bucky seemed to be done talking. Sheryl was done listening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turned, ducking around the tree so that she wouldn’t scrape her shoulder against the side of the canvas tent. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Silent Night </span>
  </em>
  <span>filled the air, swirling around with the falling snowflakes, following her hauntingly as she slid away from the tent and strode back towards women’s quarters. She abandoned all thoughts of interviews for the immediate future. If she was going to spend time with anyone during the holidays, it was going to be with someone who didn’t scramble her brain every goddamn time she spoke to them. </span>
</p><p>~~~</p><p>
  <span>Emilia Vespucci retouched her lipstick in her bed, having nothing better to do. The medics could do nothing to regulate the temperature of the tent, but her pile of blankets had been steadily growing over the days that Sheryl had been by Emilia’s side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl no longer inhabited the bed beside her, having moved back to her old cot in women’s quarters a day before. However, Sheryl intended to keep visiting Emilia as long as she was still on base. She guessed that it was an instinctual need to look after Emilia, knowing that she had no family or friends remaining from Bellissimo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emilia was no older than her, a fact that made Sheryl feel even closer to her. She had learned English from her father, and could speak it fluently, with an accent so beautiful that Sheryl found herself wishing she could pick it up. After she had cleaned up, Emilia’s true beauty was revealed; she was the picture perfect blonde doll with a button nose and sparkling eyes. If she hadn’t felt so responsible for her, Sheryl would have been insanely jealous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emilia broke into a grin when Sheryl entered the tent. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ciao, mia bella.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl gave her a timid smile and tossed her folder onto the foot of the bed. Papers spilled from it, sliding in an arc across Emilia’s lap. Emilia laughed as Sheryl sat on the edge of the bed, only to hold her head in her hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The day is going that well, is it?” Emilia curiously picked up the nearest paper to her, a profile of Jacques Dernier from earlier in the day. “You have been busy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still have two more interviews to do.” Sheryl dragged her fingers down her face, smudging her rouge as she went. “Sometimes I feel like I’m never going to get back home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emilia’s smile dropped from her face as she placed the profile back into the pile of papers. “I know how you feel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pang of regret shot through Sheryl’s chest. She had no business complaining; she was here of her own will, while Emilia was here because she was a victim. Emilia had lost everything, while Sheryl had a mother, a home, and a job waiting for her back in the States. All of Sheryl’s problems seemed so trivial to her now when compared to what Emilia must have been feeling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me, what has happened?” Emilia’s gentle smile told Sheryl there were no ill feelings, that she was truly interested and cared deeply. Sheryl sighed, grateful she had thought to come to Emilia and no one else. “What has you so upset?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you ever heard someone talk about you behind your back?” Sheryl pursed her lips, “And it’s nothing bad, it’s just something you wish they would say to your face?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emilia hummed, coyly shaking her finger in Sheryl’s direction. “This is about that Sergeant, no? The one who would not visit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl laughed through her teeth, an unappealing hissing breaking through her bashful grin. “You know me that well already?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do what I can.” Emilia held her hands out, beckoning for Sheryl to take them. “A man is a man. Do not let them worry you so. The last thing you want is for them to show on your face when you are older.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s interestingly profound.” Sheryl couldn’t keep her smile for too long. “Christmas is in, what, three days? I can’t possibly send a letter to my mother in time. I have no one to spend the holidays with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have each other.” Emilia said it so simply, as if it weren’t a testament to the times they lived in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have a gift for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emilia patted the back of Sheryl’s frozen hand. “You are the gift.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl’s eyes glassed over, and she choked out something resembling a thank you. She flung her arms around Emilia’s tiny frame, the papers on Emilia’s lap avalanching to the floor in the movement. “I promise I’ll do something, anything, to help you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You already have,” Emilia grunted into the shoulder of Sheryl’s uniform jacket. “You are smothering me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl pulled away laughing, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I think I hate this war.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emilia lifted her eyebrows jokingly. “Oh? What gave you that idea?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A few idiotic men. And a lot of bullets.” Sheryl reached down to pick up her papers, scratching along ill-set wooden planks that had been haphazardly laid as the floor for the medical tents.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emilia bent to help, her hand landing on a glossy black and white photo. She picked it up and, upon taking a closer look at it, gave out a startling yelp that nearly had Sheryl jumping out of her skin. Emilia threw the photograph onto the pile of papers at the foot of her cot, scrambling backward toward the headboard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it? What?” Sheryl reached out for her, trying to calm her down as she seemed to fly into a catastrophic panic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emilia shakily pointed to the photograph, her face white as a sheet. “It is </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span><em>,”</em> she whispered, a sob issuing from the back of her throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sheryl picked the photograph up with one hand, her other rubbing Emilia’s arm in a futile attempt to sooth her. Sheryl inspected the photograph; it was one of two dozen she had been able to develop in a makeshift dark room in the cinderblock building on base, just down the hall from Colonel Phillips’ depressing office. Most of the photos were of the Howling Commandos, but the few exceptions- the church, the radio transmitters, the prisoners of war- were chilling evidence of the monstrosities of war. She hadn’t taken a close look at any of them, as she’d had little time to use the room, and her memories of the scenes in the photos were fresh and bloodcurdling as it was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she scrutinized the photo, in all its deep contrast and shaky glory, she blanched just a shade lighter than Emilia. In her hand, Sheryl held the key to it all. The prize winner, the history-making shot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In her hand, Klaus Ziegler stared directly at the camera, full face forward, his silver eyes registering ghostly white on grayscale film.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"In my culture, death is not the end. it's more of a stepping off point. You reach out with both hands and Bast and Sekhmet, they lead you into a green veld where... you can run forever."<br/>Rest in peace Chadwick Boseman, a beautiful mind and an even more beautiful soul.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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